An AI-generated composite image of “Mr. Grant Acklin,” the supposed legal representative who spent more than a year “corresponding” with me about my dead “relative.”

18 months ago, I almost became a statistic.

In January 2025, Community students received an email advertising a paying job—no experience required, just a Google Form asking for personal information, which, if you think about it, is all a scammer really needs.

Unit 5 caught it quickly and began pulling the emails from inboxes, but not before I had a moment alone with the form and a dangerous amount of curiosity.

I didn’t fill it out. Not because I recognized the warning signs, or because I’m particularly vigilant about cybersecurity.

I didn’t fill it out because my parents weren’t home and I needed permission to take on 10 extra hours of work a week. My very first job!

That’s the margin of safety: a scheduling conflict.

This is what makes scam emails terrifying—not the technology behind them, but the psychology. They catch you in a moment of distraction or desperation and ask you to act before you can think.

All it takes is one student, one form, one second of believing something too good to be true.

But here’s what I’ve been wondering: What if you chose to believe it on purpose?

My dad has a habit that my mom finds mildly unhinged but I admire. Whenever an unknown number calls, he answers and plays along—not out of naivety, but out of sport.

I inherited that instinct.

So when a suspicious email hit my inbox on January 27 of last year—a snow day, my sister’s birthday, a day I had nothing better to do—I didn’t ignore it.

I studied it.

FROM: [email protected] DATE: Jan. 27, 2025

“My name is Grant Acklin, personal attorney to your late relative Thomas Wolf, and i have news concerning his Inheritance/Estate, which further details will be communicated to you upon your response. Your in service, Mr Grant Acklin”

The red flags were impossible to miss: grammatical errors substantial enough to constitute their own language, vague legalese designed to sound official without meaning anything, an email addressed to my father and sent to me, and—most critically—a deceased relative named Thomas Wolf that literally nobody in my family has ever heard of.

My alarm bells did not signal danger, instead they said “opportunity.”

So I replied.

FROM: Audra Wolf DATE: Jan. 27, 2025

“First of all I would try to work on your grammar when sending emails about people’s relatives passing. Second of all, I would love some more information on my dear relative Thomas’ estate. I knew him back when I was a kid, but didn’t know where he ended up. I’m so glad he thought our bond was great, he was just a truly awesome person. Thank you so much for your deep care and respect. This is my response! Have a great winter day.

Sincerely, Dr. Ryan Wolf, OSF Pharmacy Manager (Future inheritor of the Thomas Estate)”

He responded the next day.

And the day after that.

Almost a year later, we have exchanged over 50 emails—74 pages of back-and-forth “correspondences,” as Mr. Acklin prefers to call them, a word choice that suggests he has seen a lot of legal dramas.

From the beginning, he stressed the importance of my responding “promptly,” so that Thomas’s estate doesn’t get forfeited to the government.

This is a classic scammer tactic: manufacture urgency, manufacture obligation, make the target feel responsible for a crisis they didn’t create.

I ran several of his messages through AI-detection tools.

Most came back as probably AI-generated.

Gmail flagged them with its standard “be careful with this message” warning—the kind most people dismiss once they’ve already decided to trust someone.

Currently, Mr. Acklin believes he is corresponding with the President of the United States, recently divorced, completely broke and trying to provide for 11 Belgian children.

FROM: Audra Wolf DATE: Jan. 16, 2026

“So sorry for the late response Mr. Acklin, the day after I received your latest email, I was unfortunately relocated to Belgium in order to fulfill some duties there and my phone was taken away. […] I made a dash with my family for the plane and we made it on time for the election cycle, with Joe Biden’s recent aging, I was the next candidate […] I am Ryan Wolf who is unmarried due to my wife becoming one of Trump’s side chicks, I live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC 20500 and serve as the president. I am exactly 68 years old because it’s my birthday.”

He did not ask a single follow-up question. He requested my cell phone number and marital status and moved on.

Around correspondence number 20, he finally got to the point. He proposed I pay an $850 court fee, after which nearly $11 million reserved for me would be released.

I almost stopped.

But I kept going—elaborating the lie, extending the web, insisting that my Belgian son was working on expanding Zelle services internationally, which is not how Zelle works, and that I would send updates.

When I said I couldn’t pay $850, Mr. Acklin offered to split the fee as a “joint transaction.”

FROM: [email protected] DATE: Jan. 26, 2026

“Given that this matter is being handled as a joint transaction, I propose that the total fee of $850 be shared on a 50/50 basis. Your portion would be 50% ($425), with the remaining 50% covered by me. This will allow me to complete and submit the required documentation promptly and facilitate the release of the funds to you.”

This is the long game made visible: weeks of correspondence, accumulated trust, a reasonable-sounding solution. It’s not about the money yet. It’s never been about the money yet. It’s been about making you feel like the relationship is worth protecting.

I eventually agreed to pay. When Mr. Acklin requested proof, I sent him a screenshot.

He wrote back to inform me—apparently without irony—that my receipt appeared to be a demo image, undated and invalid. A man running a fraud had caught me submitting a fake one.

What makes scams work isn’t code or cleverness. It’s empathy, weaponized. They identify what you want—money, a job, a lost relative’s estate—and they hand it to you in a form just believable enough to touch.

But I didn’t fall for that thanks to my curiosity. I’m conducting an experiment with an extremely unreliable subject who thinks I am the leader of the free world.

Unit 5 is right that ignoring and reporting suspicious messages is the safest move—that advice exists because the stakes are real and most scams don’t announce themselves this obviously. Know your limits. Know what you’re doing before you reply to anything.

Still. If you have the time, the nerve and absolutely nothing to lose, there is something quietly satisfying about making a scammer wait.

It won’t cost you money.

It might cost them an afternoon.

And somewhere in Belgium, 11 fictional children are depending on you to see this through.