Toronto is a city of stark contrasts. The gleaming glass of the Financial District towers over the city, a monument to legitimate wealth and ambition. But down at street level, in the crowded PATH beneath it all, and in the anonymous condo towers that stretch to the sky, another economy thrives. This is the economy of deception. This is where I work.
I’m a fraudster. And Toronto is the perfect hunting ground.
The Toronto Advantage
You wouldn’t think it, but this city is a fraudster’s dream. It’s a world-class financial hub, which means money moves fast and people are accustomed to digital transactions. It’s one of the most multicultural cities on the planet, which provides perfect cover. Who’s going to question a guy with an accent running a “shipping import/export business” that’s really a parcel mule operation? Nobody. That’s just Toronto.
My “office” is a pre-construction condo near Yonge and Bloor that I rented with a stolen identity. The wifi is great. From my 30th-floor window, I can see the CN Tower and the endless rows of balconies, each one representing a potential target. Every condo is a node on the network, a person with a phone, a computer, and vulnerabilities.
The Grind: It’s Not What You Think
The movies make it look like hacking. It’s not. It’s social engineering. It’s psychology. My tools aren’t complex code; they are Kijiji, Facebook Marketplace, Instagram, and a burner phone from a convenience store at Dundas Square.
My day starts like any other Torontonian’s: checking emails and messages. But I’m not looking for memes from friends. I’m checking my “traps.”
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The Rental Scam: I’ve listed a gorgeous, non-existent condo in Liberty Village for $1000 less than market rate. The emails are pouring in. Desperate people, students, newcomers to Canada—all willing to send first and last month’s rent via e-Transfer to secure a place. I use photos stolen from a realtor’s site. The key is to be convincing, to sound like a busy young professional who’s “out of the country” but can “overnight the keys” once the deposit is sent.
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The CRA Scam: This is a classic for a reason. With a spoofed number that looks like it’s from the Canada Revenue Agency, I auto-dial hundreds of numbers. The script is always the same: urgency, fear, authority. “This is Officer Jenkins from the CRA. There is a warrant for your arrest due to tax evasion. To avoid immediate arrest, you must pay via Bitcoin at a ATM downtown.” You’d be shocked how many people, from scared new immigrants to elderly folks in North York, fall for it. The fear of government authority is a powerful weapon.
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The E-Transfer Flip: This is a newer one. I find people in Toronto buy/sell groups. I offer to sell them highly sought-after concert tickets (think Drake at Scotiabank Arena) or the latest iPhone. They send an e-Transfer. I accept it. Then I ghost them. It’s simple, brutal, and effective.
The Constant Paranoia
Living this life in Toronto isn’t glamorous; it’s paranoid. Every Toronto Police cruiser that drives by makes my heart skip a beat. Is it for me? The Financial Crimes Unit is no joke. I can’t enjoy my ill-gotten gains. That fancy dinner at Canoe? Paid for with a cloned credit card, and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering if the server knows. That new Canada Goose jacket? Bought with a fraudulent refund scheme at a big-box store. I can’t wear it without feeling like a walking target.
The guilt is a low hum, like the constant sound of streetcars on King Street. You learn to ignore it, but it’s always there. I once scammed a U of T student out of her entire tuition savings. I heard the panic in her voice on the phone. I pushed through the call, got the money, and felt that familiar rush of victory. But later, drinking an overpriced coffee in a Kensington Market café, I saw students laughing and studying, and I wondered if she was one of them, now crushed by debt because of me.
The Hollow Victory
Toronto is a city of ambition. Everyone is hustling, trying to make it. My hustle just happens to be illegal. But this grind doesn’t lead to a better life. It leads to a lonelier one. You can’t trust anyone. You can’t tell your family what you do. You can’t build anything real. The money comes in, but it’s meaningless. It’s digits on a screen, exchanged for pieces of your soul.
The real currency in this city isn’t money. It’s trust, community, and genuine connection. I’ve traded all that for a view of the skyline and a constant state of fear. The towers of Bay Street might shine, but from where I’m sitting, in the shadows of my own making, everything looks pretty dark.
The biggest scam isn’t the one I’m running on others. It’s the one I’m running on myself, believing that any of this is worth it.