Following the man in camouflage down the path inside the compound, Chen Rang's feet felt like they were filled with lead.
The stench of the barracks grew stronger—cheap tobacco, sour sweat, and a faint smell of disinfectant. That disinfectant came from the medicine applied to people burned by electric batons the day before.
Every step felt like sinking deeper into hell.
His number, *739*, burned on his heart like a branding iron. It wasn't just stripping away his identity—it was erasing the fact that he was human.
The Trainer's cold voice still echoed in his ears:
"Fail your task, no food."
That wasn't a threat. It was the rule here—like survival of the fittest in the jungle. Naked, brutal, and unbreakable.
"Here we are."
The man stopped, pointing at a corrugated-iron shack with the sign *Group Three* painted on it. The metal door creaked in the wind like the groan of someone dying.
"Go in. Find Old Ghost. He's your Mentor."
Without another glance, he turned and walked away.
In his eyes, "739" wasn't a person. Just a tool being handed over.
Everyone in this place would eventually become a tool—either a tool to scam, or a tool to guard the scammers.
Chen Rang took a deep breath and pushed open the creaking door.
Inside, more than a dozen battered desks held equally battered computers.
The desktops were scratched, the keyboards so worn the letters had faded.
At each station, someone sat typing furiously, reciting the same scripts aloud in voices so numb they sounded like robots on autopilot:
"Uncle Zhang, just trust me this once, this project ends next month."
"Auntie Li, since your son isn't around, it's safest to let me manage your money."
The false "kindness" in those words cut sharper than knives, because they were wrapped around the cruelest intent.
The air was thick with tension and despair.
The only light came from the computer screens, flickering over faces that showed no emotion. No anger. No guilt. Only mechanical obsession with "hitting the target."
"New guy? 739, right?"
The voice was raspy, coming from a corner.
Chen turned his head.
A man with a buzzcut and a burn scar across his cheek stared at him, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Ash fell onto his greasy shirt and he didn't care. This was Old Ghost.
His shirt collar was black with grime, the cuffs frayed, but on his finger gleamed a cheap gold ring—the "reward" for "outstanding performance." His medal of corruption.
"Y-yeah… that's me."
Chen's voice shook. His hands clenched the hem of his shirt, which still carried the faint smell of hotel laundry detergent. That smell was his last thread connecting him to "normal life." Now it was being smothered by the compound's stink.
Old Ghost gave a cold chuckle, crushed the cigarette into a makeshift ashtray—an old instant noodle cup overflowing with butts.
He pointed at an empty seat.
"Sit. You've got thirty minutes. Memorize the script on that desk. After that, I'll give you a number. You *must* get money out of them."
The way he bit down on "must" made it sound like life or death.
Chen sat and picked up the script book.
The yellowed pages were crammed with words: "Elderly Investment Fraud Script." From "friendly greetings" to "painting big promises," then "pressuring for transfers"—every line was calculated to stab right into an old person's loneliness and fears.
He stared at one line:
"Auntie, don't worry, this is a government-backed program, guaranteed returns."
His stomach turned.
He thought of his own mother. She was just like those old people—living alone in an empty house, her happiest moments being his calls.
If someone scammed her like this, he'd want to tear them apart.
Yet now, he was being forced to *become* that person.
That was the cruelest part of the scam compound:
It didn't just make you commit evil. It forced you to wrap that evil in "kindness," so that even while you hurt people, you had to convince yourself—*this is just a job.*
And the victims?
Most were people just like his mother. Not "stupid," but lonely. Longing for warmth. That was what made them easy prey.
It wasn't their personal "fault." It was a tragedy born of "empty-nest elderly" and "lost trust" in a changing society—exploited with precision by criminals.
"Stop dawdling!"
Old Ghost slammed the desk.
Chen flinched, dropping the script book.
"Half an hour. If you don't have it memorized, forget about eating today!"
His voice was full of impatience, but in his eyes Chen caught a flicker of something else—fear.
Fear of missing his quota. Fear of Khun Sa's punishments.
So he passed that fear down the chain, onto the new guy. Just like someone once did to him.
That was how "taming" worked here: fear created the hierarchy. The weak crushed each other, while the strong reaped the benefits.
The others barely glanced up before burying their heads back into their keyboards.
Not "cold," just afraid.
Last month, a newcomer told someone, "Don't scam the elderly." Old Ghost reported him. That same day, he was dragged to the back mountain and never came back.
Here, "sympathy" was the most dangerous quality. It only made you the next "useless waste."
Chen picked up the script again.
The Trainer's words echoed: "No food."
He remembered the man screaming under the electric baton. And the corpse he later saw dumped behind the barracks like garbage.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to look at the words. But they blurred, danced, refused to stick.
Not because he was stupid—because his conscience still resisted. Still screamed: *You're preparing to hurt people.*
The thirty minutes flew by.
Old Ghost walked over, slapped a slip of paper on his desk.
"Here. A Mrs. Wang. Retired, plenty of pension money. Use the script. Minimum five thousand. Fail, and you'll regret it."
He paused, adding with cold practicality:
"Her son works out of town. Rarely comes home. Best kind to scam."
*Best to scam.*
He said it like, *This apple is the sweetest.*
Completely forgetting that behind "easy to scam" was a lonely, helpless old woman.
Chen picked up the paper, fingers trembling.
The edges were worn, some digits smudged by water. But every number belonged to a real person. A mother waiting for her son's call.
On his screen, the dialer popped up.
Next to him, Old Ghost twirled an electric baton—the tip still marked with black scorch. Maybe someone else's blood.
"Dial!"
Old Ghost kicked his chair. The screech on the floor stabbed Chen's ears.
"Don't make me use this!"
Chen sucked in a breath, hand hovering over the keyboard, frozen.
He thought of his mom's voice whenever scam calls came: "Nothing falls from the sky."
But what if the caller sounded this "caring"? Would she fall for it?
He thought of the news—old men losing lifetime savings, collapsing in banks; old women poisoned after fighting with their children over money lost to scams.
These weren't "stories." They were tragedies.
And now, he was being made to *create* them.
"I can't…" he whispered, voice thin as a mosquito.
"What'd you say?"
Old Ghost's eyes went vicious.
He grabbed Chen's collar, yanking him up. Chen's throat tightened, breath cut off.
"You think you've got a choice here?!"
Old Ghost's scar twitched as he snarled, the stink of smoke in Chen's face.
"When I first got here, I didn't want to scam either." His tone shifted, bitter.
"You know what happened? I went three days without food. I was shocked so bad I couldn't stand. You think I *want* this? I got a paralyzed mom at home. If I die, she dies too!"
Chen froze. He hadn't expected *Old Ghost* to have a story.
Everyone here did.
Some were kidnapped. Some sold off for gambling debts. Some, like Old Ghost, trapped because of family.
But could "no choice" excuse hurting others? Chen didn't know.
All he knew was his feet dangled, his throat crushed. Still, he shook his head.
"I… I can't do it."
"Can't?" Old Ghost laughed. A cruel, hopeless laugh.
"Fine. I'll show you what 'can't' gets you."
He flicked the baton. The buzz of electricity filled the room, hissing like a snake.
The others paused in their typing. Shoulders trembling. Not from fear—familiarity.
They'd all been through it.
They'd all buried their conscience under that pain.
Chen stared at the crackling spark, shaking like a leaf.
But inside, one last shred of resistance still held. He didn't want to become a scammer. Didn't want to be the kind of man his mom would hate.
The baton came closer—when a voice broke in:
"Old Ghost, quit wasting time. Boss Khun Sa's checking quotas."
It was a bespectacled man at another desk. His fingers never stopped typing. His glasses were thick, hiding his eyes. But Chen noticed his hands trembled. He wasn't helping. He was just afraid—afraid Old Ghost's delay would drag them all down.
In this place, there was no "helping others." Only self-preservation.
Old Ghost hesitated, glanced at the cardboard clock on the wall. Its hands had stopped long ago, but people still looked at it—pretending "time" still existed here.
He cursed, then dropped Chen.
"Lucky bastard. Ten more minutes. If you still don't make a hit, I'll fry you myself."
Chen collapsed into the chair, back soaked in sweat, icy cold against his skin.
He looked at the number, then at Old Ghost's eyes, sharp as knives.
Inside him, conscience and survival tore at each other.
He thought of his mom again.
Her voice: "I don't need you to be rich. Just stay safe."
If he died here, what would happen to her?
Would she know her son died in a scam compound in Myanmar? That he died because he refused to scam?
The questions stabbed his chest like knives.
And he realized—in a place like this, "conscience" was sometimes a luxury. A thing you could only keep if you were willing to die for it.
And he wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
Not before seeing his mom again.
"Five minutes left," Old Ghost barked, voice like a death sentence.
Chen closed his eyes, breathing deep.
When he opened them, the hesitation was thinner. Numbness thicker.
He grabbed the mouse.
Clicked *Dial.*
The plastic felt cold. Cold like his heart.
The phone rang three times.
"Hello? Who is this?"
An elderly woman's voice, weary but expectant—like she thought it might be her son calling.
Chen's heart shot to his throat.
He stared at the script, voice trembling:
"H-hello, Auntie… I'm from the Elderly Service Center. I want to tell you about a government-supported investment program…"
His words came shaky, wrong. He avoided the screen, avoided her voice. He only clung to the script, like hiding.
Old Ghost's glare grew darker, threatening.
On the line, Mrs. Wang paused. Then sighed.
"Young man… are you being scammed? I've gotten calls like this before. All fake. If you're in trouble, call the police. Don't do this kind of thing."
The words stabbed him deeper than any baton.
She didn't curse him. Didn't hang up. She *cared.*
His lips parted. He wanted to blurt out—"I'm forced." He wanted to warn her. *Don't trust anyone.*
But Old Ghost's knife-sharp eyes silenced him.
So he stayed quiet, drowning in guilt.
"You still there, kid?" Mrs. Wang asked, worried.
"If someone's forcing you, just say you have an old mother. Tell them you won't scam old people. Maybe they'll let you go…"
Tears gushed from Chen's eyes.
He clamped his mouth, stifling the sobs.
A stranger.
And she was kind to him.
Yet he was scamming her.
He bit down hard, forcing the words out:
"Auntie, don't doubt it, this is real… If you invest five thousand, you'll earn eight hundred next month…"
"Oh, you stubborn child…" she sighed, and hung up.
*Beep. Beep. Beep.*
The dead tone hit like a slap across his face.
He hadn't gotten a dime. Couldn't even finish the script.
But there was no relief. Only shame.
"Useless!"
Old Ghost kicked his chair over. Chen crashed to the floor, his arm slamming into the desk corner. Pain shot through him.
Old Ghost raised the baton.
The hiss filled the room.
Then—
The current tore through him.
Chen screamed.
The agony stabbed into every nerve, needles through flesh. His body convulsed, tears and sweat mixing, dripping into his mouth—bitter and salty.
The pain wasn't just physical.
It was the pain of conscience being torn apart.
Of dignity trampled.
Of humanity stripped away.
"Hurts, doesn't it?"
Old Ghost switched it off, crouched down, and yanked Chen's hair. Forcing him to look him in the eye.
"Next time you disobey, I'll stick it in your chest. Remember—conscience is worthless here. Staying alive is all that matters."
Chen stared into his cruel eyes, then at the numb faces around him.
He finally understood:
This compound didn't "tame" with violence. It "tamed" with despair.
It made you believe—only by giving up conscience could you live.
It made you believe—you had no choice.
And the scariest part was—most people believed it.
"…I get it." Chen whispered, voice broken with despair.
"Next time… I'll get the money."
Old Ghost smirked, letting go.
"That's more like it. Get up. Here's another number. Today, you'd better hit. Or you don't eat."
Chen pushed himself up, arm still burning.
But the pain no longer felt sharp.
He stared at the new number on the screen.
At the script's words.
Inside him, conscience and survival clashed again.
But this time… survival seemed to be winning.
He picked up the mouse.
Clicked *Dial.*
The line connected.
He forced his voice to sound warm:
"Hello, Auntie. I'm calling from the Elderly Service Center. I'd like to tell you about an investment program…"
This time, his voice didn't shake.
His delivery was smoother.
Only when he said "guaranteed returns" did his heart spasm.
Because he knew—he was becoming the person he once hated most.
But in hell, this was his only way to live.
And he didn't know—if this kind of "living" still counted as being alive, or if it was just another form of death.
From the corner, a man in a cap looked at him. Sympathy flickered in his eyes. Guilt. And despair. Then he looked back at his keyboard, typing on.
It was Old Wu—the man who came with him.
Watching Chen, Old Wu saw his younger self.
Back when he first arrived, he too resisted. He too had a conscience.
But now, he could scam old people without blinking.
And he knew—soon, Chen would too.
Because that was the "rule" here.
The "fate" of the weak.
Chen's first "task" had just begun.
And so had his "taming."