“Sir, we’re seeing some irregular activity on your card… did you authorize a ₹38,000 payment to Travel Now Dubai?” The voice on the other end of the phone was calm, maybe too calm. But for Mr. Srinivas Rao, a 52-year-old businessman from Nagole, it wasn’t just the question that chilled him, it was the realization […]

It started like any other Tuesday. Amit Yadav, the tech operations guy at Real11, sat with his morning chai, skimming through reports. But something didn’t sit right. “Wait… how is this user withdrawing ₹3.5 lakh with just ₹200 in the wallet yesterday?” he muttered, eyes narrowing at his screen.He zoomed into transaction logs. Then another

“Sir, I have an exclusive stock recommendation for you. A big player is accumulating shares—this is your chance to make 30-40% returns in just three months!” That’s how the pitch usually went. A smooth-talking “advisor” on the other end of the line, promising financial freedom in record time. The average investor, lured by the dream

“Sir, I’m telling you—this property is a steal! Prime location, excellent price. You won’t get a better deal in Daryaganj.” Rahul, a mid-level executive at a tech firm, glanced at the man in front of him. The broker was confident, persuasive. Maybe even too persuasive. “But it’s so much cheaper than similar properties. Why?” Rahul

“Beta, it’s time,” Satish whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. Gagan looked at his father, his palms sweaty despite the cool night air. This was it—the moment they had planned for. If everything went as intended, in a few months, they would be free of all their loans, living a comfortable life with a

“Dude, check this out. I just made a completely fake accident report using AI. Even the scratches on the car look real!” Kunal squinted at the message on his phone. His friend, Rohit, had always been tech-savvy, but this sounded different. “What do you mean fake?” Kunal replied. “I found a random car photo online,

If you walk past Gandhi Chowk in Raichur, Karnataka, you wouldn’t guess that behind the dusty blue shutter of the Bank of Maharashtra branch, a quiet storm had been brewing for months. Locals remember the man in charge, Narendra Reddy, as polite, punctual, and soft-spoken. “He would greet everyone with a smile,” said a local

“Sir, I think we’ve got another one,” said the junior officer, sliding a thick file across the table. The Enforcement Directorate (ED) official flipped through the pages, his brows furrowing deeper with every paragraph. A web of transactions, shell companies, and blatant fund diversion lay bare before him. “This is worse than we thought,” he

“Are you sure this is the right opportunity?” Ravi (name changed), a well-established automobile businessman in Hyderabad, sat in his office, scrolling through his laptop screen. He had spent the last few weeks looking for ways to expand his business, and now, right in front of him, was what looked like a golden opportunity, a

“Sir, your complaint is in safe hands. We’ll get your money back.” These words are supposed to bring relief to cybercrime victims. After being tricked by fraudsters, they turn to the police, their last hope. But what if the officers handling the case aren’t heroes, but thieves in disguise? That’s exactly what happened in Delhi,