Over three years, a 49-year-old Singaporean engineer named Li built what he believed was a genuine human connection online, only to discover that trust had been carefully engineered as a financial instrument. His loss of nearly $90,000 — first to a fabricated dropshipping scheme, then to a fraudulent recovery lawyer — is not merely a cautionary tale about digital deception, but a reflection of how loneliness and hope can be systematically exploited. In Singapore's first half of 2026 alone, investment scams claimed $169.8 million from thousands of lives, suggesting that this wound is not one ma
Man loses $80k in crypto to fake 'Singaporean woman' dropshipping scam
One victim lost $90,000 in total savings through coordinated romance and investment scams.
That's when I realised something was wrong
Mark
So he knew her for three years before she asked him to put in money?
Mimi
Yes, they were chatting on Facebook for three years. She brought up the dropshipping idea multiple times over that period, but he kept saying no. It wasn't until June, when she said she was coming back to Singapore and sent photos, that he finally agreed.
Luke
And those photos—do we know if they were actually of her, or stolen images?
Mimi
We don't know. The source doesn't say. He showed them to the reporter, but there's no verification of who's actually in them.
Mark
What made him finally trust her after three years of hesitation?
Mimi
She claimed she owned property in Sentosa Cove and was returning to Singapore. When she sent the photographs, he felt he had proof she was real. That's when his resistance broke.
Luke
But he'd asked for video calls before and she always refused. That's a pretty clear warning sign.
Mimi
Absolutely. He even told the reporter he had doubts about it. But the photographs seemed to change his calculation.
Mark
And then once he put money in, it actually worked at first?
Mimi
Yes. Payments were refunded, commissions appeared. That's what made it credible enough that when the account locked, he paid more to unlock it.
Luke
How much did he lose to the fake lawyer?
Mimi
About $10,000. He transferred 7,153 Tether thinking the lawyer had already recovered his money and just needed a fee to release it.
Mark
Did the lawyer ever respond?
Mimi
No. Complete silence after the transfer.
Luke
So we have no idea who either of these people actually are—Yuting or the lawyer.
Mimi
Correct. The police are investigating, but the source doesn't say whether they've identified anyone or recovered anything.
El Pulso
- A three-year online friendship with a woman named 'Yuting' turned out to be a meticulously constructed trap, designed to erode skepticism slowly before striking financially.
- When Yuting claimed she was returning to Singapore and sent photographs as proof, Li's lingering doubts dissolved — and within a single month he deposited nearly $80,000 in cryptocurrency into accounts he believed were legitimate.
- The scheme revealed itself through escalating demands: first a lockout requiring more deposits, then a $63,000 Tether fee just to withdraw his own money.
- Seeking rescue, Li fell into a second trap — a fake lawyer who pocketed another $10,000 in fees before vanishing, bringing his total losses to roughly $90,000 in personal savings.
- Singapore police are investigating, but recovery remains uncertain, and Li's only appeal is a public plea — hoping the photographs of a stranger he trusted for three years will somehow reach her conscience.
Over three years, a 49-year-old Singaporean engineer named Li built what he believed was a genuine human connection online, only to discover that trust had been carefully engineered as a financial instrument. His loss of nearly $90,000 — first to a fabricated dropshipping scheme, then to a fraudulent recovery lawyer — is not merely a cautionary tale about digital deception, but a reflection of how loneliness and hope can be systematically exploited. In Singapore's first half of 2026 alone, investment scams claimed $169.8 million from thousands of lives, suggesting that this wound is not one man's misfortune but a quiet epidemic of manufactured intimacy.
Li, a 49-year-old engineer in Singapore, spent three years in casual online conversation with a woman named Yuting, whom he had met through Facebook and believed to be a fellow Singaporean living abroad. The relationship felt unhurried and genuine — until June of this year, when Yuting introduced a business proposition: a dropshipping arrangement promising 15 percent commissions on transactions he would help facilitate.
Li had his doubts. Yuting had always refused video calls or meetings in person. But when she announced she was returning to Singapore and sent photographs as evidence, his reservations gave way. He agreed to participate — and within a single month, deposited nearly $80,000 in cryptocurrency into accounts tied to the scheme. At first, the mechanics appeared to function: payments came in, refunds processed, commissions appeared. Then the platform locked him out, demanding more deposits to restore access. When he complied and tried to withdraw his funds, he was told he needed to deposit an additional $63,000 in Tether first. The demand made the truth undeniable.
The ordeal did not end there. Searching for a way to recover his losses, Li found what appeared to be a lawyer online who claimed to have already secured $60,000 in Tether on his behalf — Li simply needed to pay a fee to access it. He transferred roughly $10,000. No response ever came. His total losses reached approximately $90,000, drawn almost entirely from his personal savings.
Li's story sits within a much larger pattern. In the first six months of 2026, investment scams were Singapore's costliest fraud category, with victims losing $169.8 million. Across all scam types, police recorded over 16,800 cases totaling $410.6 million in losses. Investigators are looking into Li's case, though the prospect of recovery is dim. He has made a public appeal, hoping Yuting will see his story and return what she took — the only traces of her being a handful of photographs: a woman in hotel pajamas, another holding a wine glass in a white dress.
A 49-year-old engineer in Singapore spent three years chatting with someone he believed was an overseas Singaporean woman named Yuting, whom he met on Facebook. In June of this year, after years of casual conversation, she brought up a business opportunity: a dropshipping operation where he would help customers place orders with suppliers, collect advance payment, and earn a 15 percent commission once transactions cleared. The man, identified as Li, had harbored reservations about the scheme for some time—Yuting had consistently declined his requests for video calls or in-person meetings. But when she told him she was returning to Singapore and sent photographs to prove her identity, his doubts softened. He agreed to participate.
Within a single month, Li deposited nearly $80,000 in cryptocurrency into accounts set up for the dropshipping business. The initial mechanics seemed to work: payments arrived, refunds processed, and commissions appeared in his account. Then, in mid-June, the system locked him out. He was told he needed to deposit additional funds to regain access. When he complied and later attempted to withdraw his money, he faced another demand: deposit 50,000 Tether—roughly $63,000—before any withdrawal could proceed. That request crystallized what Li had begun to suspect: he had been defrauded.
The scam did not end with the initial loss. Desperate to recover his money, Li found what appeared to be a lawyer online who claimed he could help retrieve the funds. The supposed attorney told Li that he had already transferred $60,000 worth of Tether to his cryptocurrency wallet, but Li would need to pay a fee first to access it. Believing this narrative, Li transferred 7,153 Tether—approximately $10,000—and received no response. His total loss climbed to roughly $90,000, nearly all of it from his personal savings.
Li's experience reflects a broader pattern in Singapore's fraud landscape. In the first six months of 2026, investment scams accounted for the largest share of fraud losses, with victims collectively losing $169.8 million. Across all scam types during that period, police recorded 16,821 reported cases resulting in total losses of $410.6 million. The police confirmed they are investigating Li's case, though recovery remains uncertain. Li has made a public appeal, hoping that Yuting will see his story and return the money. The photographs she sent him—a woman in hotel pajamas, another in a white dress holding a wine glass—are the only traces of the person he trusted for three years.
Citas Notables
The money is my hard-earned savings. I hope that after Yuting sees this will return my money.— Li, the victim
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