Trapped, Tricked, Drained: Myanmar’s Pig-Butchering Scams Exposed

Like most transnational crime syndicates, the global scam industry has long been shrouded in secrecy. That veil was briefly lifted last month when The New York Times gained rare access to Shun Da Park, a sprawling office compound deep inside conflict-torn Myanmar. The site was built with a single purpose — to extract money from victims around the world through organised online fraud.

The opportunity arose after an anti-junta armed group, which has been fighting Myanmars military for years, seized control of the compound. What they found inside offered an unprecedented glimpse into a multibillion-dollar scam industry operating at an industrial scale. Chat logs, internal company documents and handwritten notebooks left behind revealed how a criminal network, largely run by Chinese operators, systematically carried out online scams.

At its peak, more than 3,500 scammers from dozens of countries worked inside Shun Da Park. Some were trafficked there against their will. Every day, low-level workers were required to send thousands of unsolicited messages on platforms such as Facebook. Others played more specialised roles, posing as attractive men or women, or as experienced cryptocurrency investors, to build trust with potential victims.

The compound even had dedicated video call rooms, fitted with fake office settings or luxury apartment backdrops. These were combined with deepfake images, manipulated videos and hired actors wearing wigs to complete the illusion. Many of these scams unfolded over months. The scammers would first establish romantic relationships before gradually introducing investment opportunities.

Just days before the compound was overrun, scammers there were operating accounts under the persona of a young Asian woman named “Vivian”. According to chat records, she flirted with a truck driver in Kansas, a retired deputy sheriff in New Mexico, praised the looks of a large-animal veterinarian, and later shifted her attention to an electrical engineer.

One male victim responded to her message with a smiley emoji.

“Age is just a number,” he wrote.

Stacks of notebooks recovered from the compound showed how meticulously these fake identities were crafted. One notebook detailed a fictional Chinese man named Chen Minchen (phonetic spelling), complete with an elaborate backstory. His first love was a university classmate, whom he met after accidentally hitting her with a basketball — a detail meant to show both his athleticism and his politeness. His blood type was listed as B, his zodiac sign Leo, which explained his English name. His mother cooked braised pork well. He drove a Mercedes and owned a US$1.2 million apartment in Hong Kong.

These scam manuals were highly strategic. Targets in China were women over 30, while women in Taiwan aged 40 and above were preferred.

For Taiwanese targets, the first three days were spent gathering basic information through casual conversation — work, hobbies and relationship status. From days three to five, scammers were instructed to invent childhood stories to build emotional connection. Between days five and seven, the focus shifted to romantic topics, especially at night, when women were believed to be more emotionally open.

Scammers were told to emphasise that they valued inner beauty over looks, while subtly positioning themselves as professionals whose financial judgement should be trusted. Only then would they introduce investment opportunities.

“Strike precisely and weave a beautiful dream for her,” one manual instructed.

Victims were also coached on how to deal with bank staff questioning large withdrawals. The recommended excuse was wedding preparations. The manuals even listed cryptocurrencies and trading platforms to use.

At the end of one notebook was a chilling instruction:

“Guide the client to keep investing until all savings and loans are completely drained.”

Some scammers directed victims to a platform called “Revival Technology Artificial Intelligence Supercomputing Hedge Capital”, known as RTAI. The platform had a professional-looking website and mobile app, claiming access to global financial market data.

RTAI claimed its executives were trained at major investment institutions, including one supposedly holding a Harvard finance degree. It also claimed to have its New York headquarters in the Times Center building, owned by The New York Times.

David, a real estate agent from Mexico, said he was contacted last summer by a woman named “Marina”, who claimed to be from San Francisco. She showed him videos of her luxurious lifestyle, which she said was funded through RTAI investments. She introduced him to the platform and even sent Spanish-language financial documents. Marina also provided seed money, which quickly showed profits. David was able to withdraw the initial gains, convincing him to invest his entire savings.

In May, a computer technician from Ecuador named Oscar met a Chinese woman called “Annie”. The same RTAI scam followed.

In reality, RTAI had no office in the Times Center. Harvard University does not offer a finance major. None of the companys claimed founders could be found online. The New York Times sought clarification from RTAI but received no response.

By last November, as fighting intensified near Shun Da Park, David, Oscar and hundreds of victims from Mexico, Brazil and elsewhere suddenly found they could no longer withdraw funds. After The New York Times contacted the company, some of its apps stopped functioning. Yet on its Telegram channel, new subscribers continued to join.

The exposure of Shun Da Park shows how modern scams are no longer isolated acts of deception, but carefully engineered operations that exploit human emotion, technology and trust — on a global scale.