Totoong Kuwento

Today, I want to share how I almost fell victim to a scam. I hope my experience serves as a warning to other students. I also want to thank the university for its anti-scam awareness campaigns—they were ultimately what snapped me back to reality and helped me stop the scam before it was too late.

I always considered myself a cautious person. I even watched 孤注一掷 and thought, "That would never happen to me." But scammers today are incredibly sophisticated. Or perhaps the truth is that when you're living abroad, you're much more vulnerable than you realize.

It all started at around 2:00 p.m. one ordinary afternoon last semester. I received an AI-generated automated phone call claiming to be from the Tseung Kwan O Immigration Office. I immediately connected to what sounded like a real staff member.

The caller told me that the Hong Kong Police had discovered a China Mobile SIM card, supposedly registered under my name at No. 40 Deping Road, Pudong New Area, Shanghai. According to them, this number had been sending large volumes of illegal messages advertising visa application services and had been used to obtain Hong Kong citizens' personal information. They said the Hong Kong government had been cracking down on telecom fraud and that this case could affect my future immigration records.

I knew I had never registered such a phone number, so I explained that my identity must have been stolen. The caller told me I needed to file a police report with the Public Security Bureau in Pudong, Shanghai, so they could send an official case report back to Hong Kong Immigration. At the time, this didn't seem suspicious. In today's world, personal data leaks happen all the time, and since no money was involved, I thought, "Fine, I'll just file a report."

The caller then asked if I wanted Hong Kong Immigration to help transfer my case directly to the Shanghai police. I agreed without hesitation. Within seconds, I was connected to the "Pudong Public Security Bureau."

Thinking I was being careful, I secretly searched Safari for the bureau's official phone number while staying on the call. Here's where I fell into my first trap: the number I found online was exactly the same as the one calling me.

The "officer" then instructed me to download an app called Webex (similar to Zoom or Tencent Meeting). He asked me to add him, join a meeting using the meeting ID and password he provided, and enable my camera, microphone, and screen sharing.

The officer, who introduced himself as Officer Zhao Wenqiang, first asked about my case. He even lectured me on protecting my personal information in the future. His tone sounded incredibly professional and righteous. He reminded me to always write "For XXX Organization Only" across copies of my ID card when scanning them, and even showed me several public safety videos explaining how to prevent identity theft.

Everything felt completely legitimate. After that, he claimed he was contacting colleagues from the telecommunications authority to check whether my personal information had been misused elsewhere. He told me I would normally have to travel to Shanghai in person for the investigation. When I explained that I was currently in Hong Kong, he said I would instead have to cooperate remotely.

He instructed me to prepare a full statement about the case for an official interview. He also told me to make sure my surroundings were completely quiet because the recording system would detect excessive background noise.

Once I finished giving my statement, he immediately called his "superior" in front of me to apply for an official investigation. His tone suddenly became much more serious. While listening, I overheard phrases like "national-level criminal suspect," which immediately made me panic. After hanging up, he sternly informed me that I was now suspected of involvement in a major illegal fundraising case, which he claimed was classified as a National Level II Confidential Case. He even showed me what appeared to be part of the police system, including information about the case and other suspects. He opened documents that looked like confidentiality agreements and arrest warrants before quickly withdrawing them, saying they were classified materials.

I tried to explain that I wasn't even in Shanghai during the period in question. I told him that immigration records would prove I hadn't been there and that I hadn't visited Shanghai at all in the past six months. I suggested that someone must have stolen my identity to open the bank account.

He responded that I was still an official suspect. He then displayed my personal information, including my ID details and photograph. He claimed that the main suspect, Zhang Wenbin—who had supposedly already been arrested—had confessed that he knew me personally and that I had voluntarily given him my Bank of China debit card. According to him, both the physical evidence and witness testimony already pointed to me.

I kept insisting that my identity had been stolen, that I had never been to Shanghai, that I had never opened that bank account, and that I had absolutely no idea who Zhang Wenbin was. He then said that because my statement contradicted Zhang Wenbin's, he could reopen the investigation to help clear my name. He repeatedly told me that he was trying to help me and asked me to trust his ability as an investigator—but only if I cooperated fully.

Then things became even stranger. While my screen was still being shared, he instructed me to delete TikTok, Xiaohongshu, Weibo, Instagram, Bilibili, and other social media apps from my phone. He even told me not to use AI apps like DeepSeek or Doubao. He ordered me not to tell anyone about the case—not even my parents or friends. He even asked whether I was single. He claimed that discussing the case would amount to leaking state secrets, alerting other suspects, and obstructing the police investigation. He then sent me what he called a National Level II Confidentiality Agreement and made me read it aloud.

He warned me that violating it could result in criminal liability. He also imposed two "requirements." First, every three hours I had to report my whereabouts to him through Webex, complete with photos proving where I was. Second, whenever I was in my dormitory, I had to keep my laptop connected to the Webex meeting; whenever I went outside, I had to switch to my phone. My microphone, camera, and screen sharing all had to remain on continuously. He explained that this was necessary to prove my innocence by ensuring I wasn't contacting my "accomplices." He also claimed that someone named Wang Jing from the telecommunications authority was monitoring all of my communications in real time.

At one point, I asked him, "What if I simply stop answering your calls?" He replied, "You can try. But the next time you return to mainland China, you may be arrested immediately." At that point, I felt completely helpless. Around midnight, I went up to the rooftop of my dormitory and cried alone for almost an hour.

When I finally calmed down, he told me to wipe away my tears before going back downstairs so no one would ask questions. He even comforted me, saying he treated me like his younger sister and that I should trust him to handle the case. He promised he would do everything possible to prove my innocence. And yes... I believed him.

That entire night, I slept with Webex video connected to him. The call continued until this morning. So how did it finally end?

Because I had deleted TikTok, I started scrolling through WeChat instead. By pure coincidence, I came across an anti-scam article posted by our university's CSSA and the CityUHK – China Unicom Joint Laboratory for Intelligent Scam Prevention. As I read it, my heart sank. The scam script described in the article matched my experience almost word for word. I immediately hung up the call and contacted my friends and my parents.

Looking back now, I can only say it was a painful lesson. Thankfully, the scammers never got as far as asking me to transfer money. Honestly, after everything that had happened, I think I probably would have sent it. The entire experience felt unbelievably real. The caller ID matched the official number of the Pudong Public Security Bureau. His tone was authoritative. The websites and documents looked genuine. For a while, I genuinely believed I was about to end up in prison.

The first thing I did after hanging up was call my dad. Thankfully, he immediately pulled me back to reality and firmly told me not to panic because it was obviously a scam.

Then I talked with my roommate, who kept reassuring me until I finally started believing that none of it was real. I quickly searched Xiaohongshu and found countless people describing the exact same scam. Only then did I finally relax. Even now, though, I'm still shaken. What frightens me most is that the scammers knew my ID number, my Mainland Travel Permit for Hong Kong and Macau Residents, and even my parents' personal information.

Thankfully, I realized the truth before it was too late. I didn't lose any money. Finally, I want to sincerely thank the university for its anti-scam education, and thank my parents and friends for helping me regain my composure. Without them, I might not have escaped this scam unharmed.