On the first day of a brilliant British summer, an overseas call masked as “110”—China’s official emergency number—dragged a Chinese international student into a digital psychological cage that would last for two months. This was more than a mere hunt for financial gain; it was a precise psychological trap targeting the “Gen Z” demographic. By ingeniously activating the issue unique to the post-pandemic era and weaponizing the “authoritarian fear” deeply rooted in traditional Chinese upbringing, this exposes a sobering reality: the fragile privacy defenses and the profound loss of agency experienced by a generation living under the shadow of the Digital Leviathan.
Constantly Reversing Script: Bureaucracy as a Badge of Trust
In July 2025, England was basking in its most brilliant summer, but a single phone call caused me to miss the most beautiful moments of the season.
On July 1, 2025, I had just finished moving and was still catching my breath in my new house. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. The caller ID displayed “110,” and the person on the other end identified themselves as the “Chongqing Anti-Fraud Center.” He recited his name and badge number, proceeding to give me a tedious lecture on anti-fraud awareness. I assumed it was a routine educational call—until he told me that a mobile number under my name was reported for spreading gambling and financial misinformation.
He asked if I was aware of this. I said no. He claimed that someone had stolen my identity to register a SIM card at an online outlet on June 12 and picked it up at Fuzhou Changle Airport. He told me this was a case of identity theft and that I needed to report it to the Fuzhou Public Security Bureau. Looking back, his tone was calm and level—likely a high-quality AI recording used for mass-scale phishing. Then, via an “internal transfer,” he connected me directly to the “Fuzhou Public Security Bureau.”
A man claiming to be a police officer picked up. When I told him I wanted to report the crime, he insisted it had to be done in person. I explained I was overseas. He initially feigned reluctance, adopting an impatient tone—like a low-level clerk eager to get off work and annoyed by tedious chores. He insisted on a physical presence until I reiterated that my work kept me abroad. He then “conceded” to a video-call deposition. This “negative realism” won my trust; I felt that “a scammer shouldn’t be this rude.” He gave his name and badge number. Let’s call him Officer Gao.
After the deposition, he offered to check if other personal information of mine had been leaked. Unfamiliar with police procedures, I assumed this was standard. Then, a robotic female voice came on the line. After reciting my ID number, it abruptly announced that I was involved in the “He Jiachai Major Money Laundering Case.”
At that moment, as my mind went blank, a man claiming to be a “Police Chief” suddenly burst into the room, feigning deep concern for the case. Citing “confidentiality,” he dismissed Officer Gao and began an exhaustive interrogation. He was extremely stern, repeatedly questioning whether I had any connection to the case. He then threatened me with a forced return to China and told me to check flight tickets.
I insisted I wouldn’t go back. Finally, he compromised: I could stay abroad, but since this was a “Class II State Secret Case,” I had to be placed under video surveillance to prevent leaks. Not just surveillance—I had to submit a “safety report” every two hours. I was placed in a so-called “monitoring group.” Looking back, I accepted this with total submissiveness. This stemmed from my experience during three years of lockdowns in China, where I grew accustomed to constant, formalistic reporting. As a Chinese citizen, I was habituated to surrendering my right to privacy.
This authoritarian influence continued. The next day, “Captain Feng” (the Chief) told me my case belonged to a higher-level prosecutor, but he was “holding it back” for now. He was showing me an informal exchange of power—a “favor.” It made me feel he wasn’t just processing a case, but “settling things” for me. This “gray area” realism felt more like the actual power dynamics of grassroots Chinese authority than any official procedure ever could.
Initially, he showed me several photos and asked if I recognized them—likely other traded personal data, but presented as resources the police system could deploy at will. After demonstrating their vast information network, he began probing how my information might have leaked. He then asked about my family background; in reality, he was assessing my wealth. He ordered me to organize clues about the leak and record my bank balances for the “official record.” Though this information should have been accessible through their own systems, I had lost my capacity for independent judgment. My suspicion of him wasn’t because I thought he was a scammer, but because I simply didn’t trust the Chinese judiciary. I didn’t want to reveal personal details to the “enforcement arm” of an authoritarian government. Paradoxically, because of this logic, his “police identity” was actually confirmed in my mind.
The “Favor” of the Gray Zone: A Paternalistic Offer Under Neo-liberal World
They dragged this out for a long time—two months of “observation.” Every time I left my house, I had to report to them. I couldn’t participate in entertainment; instead, I was forced to focus on study and work. The scammers didn’t just steal my time; they provided a “regulated tranquility.” At that moment, being under arrest actually felt like a relief from the burden of freedom.
One day in July, the Captain told me he was going to my hometown to investigate personally and disappeared for a month. When he returned, the “net” finally began to close. He told me the “Prosecutor” was back—a man who was strictly “by the book.” This set the stage for the bail money request.
At the same time, he said that because of my good cooperation, he had secured a “face-to-face” meeting for me. He even subtly hinted that I shouldn’t let the Prosecutor know there was any private connection between the police and me. He warned me that the case was under immense public pressure, claiming a victim’s family member had committed suicide. All of this was invisible pressure, and I need to be grateful for their trust in me. This “Prosecutor Wang” had a Fujian accent and a very stern voice. After I stated my case, he rebuked me: “If you didn’t protect your information, why was it used?” He immediately issued an “Arrest Warrant.” Paradoxically, I felt a sense of relief—I wouldn’t have to struggle with my own life anymore. When I told a friend about this, she echoed the sentiment. I thought to myself, we are so used to surrendering our power and initiative while working in China. Living abroad, we are at a loss when faced with freedom. I saw a post on Xiaohongshu where a victim said they had their “most productive month of study” while being scammed; the comments were filled with the same bittersweet irony.
I was on the verge of giving up. But at that point, Officer Gao—the first one to handle me—began an impassioned plea for me to “fight for myself.” Even in my despair, I felt something was off; his emotional delivery was too saturated, too much like a pyramid scheme. Yet, under that influence, I wrote a “confession letter.” In his narrative, he was a low-level officer with little power but a heart for the common people, trembling before the Prosecutor. He told me that after he handed over my letter, the Prosecutor simply waved him away. He claimed he was on my side. I felt a pang of misplaced empathy.
The “Strict Father” Trap: Ridiculous Gratitude After Humiliation
The next day, Prosecutor Wang returned and told me he had changed his mind. The reason? Because he “viewed me as his own child.” That familiar feeling washed over me again—like being scolded by a primary school teacher, only to be comforted a moment later. I felt a ridiculous sense of identification. It made me realize the most terrifying part of this scam wasn’t the transfer of funds; it was how it activated the fear of and obsession with the “Strict Father” from our childhood memories. We are accustomed to surrendering power, accustomed to waiting for a shred of tenderness after being humiliated.
He then secured a “Bail Notice” from the “court,” requiring a 600,000 RMB deposit. When I told him I couldn’t raise it in secret, he “found a way” for me: tell my parents I was accepted into a PhD program, and the supervisor needed a 600,000 RMB proof of assets. He had me write a fund certificate. The endless red tape and documents felt like a desert of wasted words; even a Kafka novel couldn’t compare. I grew impatient. Then, he suddenly told me that my photos had been found on the phones of extradited suspects—that my info might have been stolen while using a Chinese restaurant’s Wi-Fi. It was like a carrot dangled in front of a donkey, giving me a fresh spark of hope. For three days, I was forced to “screen share” to prove “why I was the only suspect allowed to remain in the UK.” An absurd demand was framed as an incentive. In those three days, I researched every loan option in the UK and China and finished reading three books.
On the last day of surveillance, I was near a mental breakdown while they were pressuring me for my “proposal.” I ran into the bathroom, hid, and searched for “He Jiachai Money Laundering Case.” There it was—a classic scam targeting international students. This was surely why they had me delete my mainstream social media apps. I immediately turned off the video. The English night was rainy. I tried calling the real Fuzhou Police and “110,” but couldn’t get through. I called the Chinese Embassy; they took my name and never responded. Meanwhile, fake police calls and “110” calls kept coming, followed by two UK numbers. Once I stopped answering, they vanished.
Awakening and Reflection
Reflecting on this, my feelings are complex. I mourn the time I lost. I am shocked by how intricately linked the trap was. While their documents had flaws, their grasp of human psychology was masterful, even “brilliant.” After three years of the pandemic, Chinese people have become accustomed to surrendering personal rights and privacy, which is why we so readily accept “continuous video surveillance to create an isolated space.” The fact that these monitors could respond 24/7 gives me a complicated view of the people in those “scam parks”—they, too, are victims of monitoring.
This opaque administrative style, where the enforcer holds absolute authority, is exactly how people imagine the Chinese police operate. I was so familiar with—and submissive to—the rudeness of reporting a crime, the “all-enveloping” control of the authoritarian system, and the opacity of judicial procedures. These scammers target students not just for their family’s wealth, but also for their physical isolation. Reports say that when people are in a foreign country, a large part of the brain is occupied with unfamiliar daily tasks. In that state, the “carrot and stick” tactics of these people provide a strange sense of familiarity. This authoritarianism might be understood as “trauma” in the neo-liberal world, but for those of us who grew up in this culture, it is perhaps a “choice-less comfort.”
It also echoes the fears of the information age: that we have a “digital twin” in the network that has more influence over our lives than our physical bodies. Trapped in this self-directed “investigation,” I clearly felt I was exhausting my physical energy for a system I wasn’t even responsible for.
Afterward, I looked for other victims online, but most of the comments were: “These people must have done something wrong,” or “A classic scam, how can anyone still believe it?” A Weibo user, commenting on a case where a student in Malaysia jumped to their death after being scammed, said: “Instead of blaming the children, why not think about what turned them into such submissive people?”
Furthermore, I want to know: how did this personal information leak out? I used a SIM card from the Visa Application Center, yet these scammers knew my name and even possessed a photo of my ID card. Does a complete, sophisticated industry chain exist behind this?
I believe this digital Leviathan refers not merely to the fraudsters lurking in Southeast Asia—operating beyond the reach of Chinese police, working day and night with telephone lines as their tentacles. This may merely be the shadow of a larger, monstrous entity. What truly unsettles and chills me is that we live within the unease of vast electronic information. We have no idea how much information a stranger possesses about us, nor to what extent this data could be weaponized against us, placing our physical safety at risk. More crucially, we remain unaware of the limits our freedoms might face when confronted by a highly trained system？Are we ever safe in this era?
Noraeverland 