Two hundred thousand people trapped behind towering walls: who is their last hope?
Chen Ye, a young man from the countryside in Shiyan, Hubei, believes a voice message from a former coworker promising a high-paying job, hoping to raise his younger sister's tuition. He boards a flight to Phnom Penh. Lin Xiaoyu, a Dai woman from Ruili, Yunnan, is lured by a livestream room's big spender, desperate to pay the 30,000 yuan needed for her mother's surgery. With half a bottle of stomach medicine in her pocket, she climbs into the same smuggling van.
They meet in the muddy borderlands, then reunite inside a scam compound.
Jin Bei 3, Jin Bei 6, the Mondulkiri No. 2 compound, the AB compound: they are sold three times like cargo, have their ribs broken, are locked in dark rooms, and watch their fellow captives buried alive. Fifty-three compounds are scattered across Cambodia, generating 12.5 billion dollars a year, half the country's GDP. Behind the high walls, keyboards clatter day and night. The keystrokes of thousands of prisoners produce the compounds'
