Every scam has an ending. Sometimes it’s abrupt. The website disappears, the WhatsApp group is deleted, and the people behind it vanish without a trace. Other times, the collapse is gradual, layered, and concealed behind seemingly plausible delays and thinly veiled excuses.

What we’re witnessing now with the Tesco scam, operating through , is the latter. A slow-motion retreat disguised as system updates, verification issues, and minor technical problems. All of this is unfolding while withdrawals go unpaid and victims grow more desperate.

This is not the platform’s first red flag. As we warned in our original exposé in April, the entire pitch was built on stolen branding, fabricated investment structures, and synthetic dashboards. It promised daily returns on virtual grocery packages, manufactured earnings tied to tiered memberships, and flashy referral bonuses. All of this was falsely presented under the Tesco name. The real Tesco, a UK-based retailer with operations in Europe, has no involvement in South Africa and no connection to this platform.

At the time, our investigation served both as a warning and a record. It laid out the mechanics of the scam, from the way it faked legitimacy to the choreographed recruitment tactics that encouraged users to bring others into the system. But if that article documented how the scam operated, what we’re seeing now is how it ends. And it is unfolding with chilling familiarity.

The earliest signs of collapse didn’t come from the website itself but from its users. From the beginning of May 2025, victims began to report that withdrawals were no longer being processed. Several users had requested payouts as far back as 1 May. None had been honoured.

The typical responses followed. Group admins, operating under aliases like “Alison,” initially deflected with standard explanations. System load, backend delays, and maintenance cycles were all mentioned. Then, without further warning, the responses stopped altogether. The groups that had once been active with promotional chatter, motivational updates, and exaggerated success stories suddenly fell quiet. Some members were removed from the groups. Others were restricted from posting or shadow-muted.

By that point, the pattern was clear. This was not a technical issue. It was a withdrawal freeze, initiated deliberately to halt payouts and preserve the illusion of solvency. The dashboard still shows synthetic balances, but behind it, the system is no longer paying out. It’s no longer doing anything other than stalling. And that is the most consistent early warning sign in scams of this nature.

For those looking to verify the collapse directly by visiting tescospro.shop, the domain now returns a 403 Forbidden error. At first glance, this appears to confirm that the site is offline.

But appearances, in this case, are deceiving.

If a user appends the path /#/login — a link often shared inside WhatsApp groups — the site loads as normal. The login page appears. The dashboard is accessible. The balances remain intact. The scam continues to function for anyone who knows the exact entry point.

This is not accidental. It is a purposeful adjustment. The scammers have configured the site to reject visitors landing on the main domain, while still allowing access through embedded or fragment-specific routes. The idea is simple. Block out scrutiny from investigators, journalists, and regulators who might casually visit the homepage. At the same time, keep the real targets — existing victims — inside the system long enough to attempt one final heist.

Technically, it’s straightforward. But the implications are significant. The scam is still live. Just not openly. This selective access was likely introduced shortly after increased exposure, particularly following published investigations like ours. It gives the illusion that the operation has shut down, while keeping the backend alive long enough to extract a few more deposits from those still inside.

It’s not a shutdown. It’s a retreat. One designed to obscure, not resolve.

Once withdrawals have failed and scrutiny begins to mount, the next phase begins. It always looks like a fix.

Soon, victims will be told their accounts need to be verified. That a “release fee” or “system reset” is required. That a compliance step needs to be cleared. These fees are usually small enough to seem believable and just large enough to matter to the scam’s operators.

The messages will be worded carefully. They will sound procedural. They may even be accompanied by fake receipts or proof of successful withdrawals from other users. But they all serve one purpose. To delay the truth. To create the illusion of solvability. And to bait users into sending just a little more, despite everything pointing to the fact that it’s already over.

This is the scam’s final rhythm. An engineered phase designed to feel like recovery, but structured entirely to exploit hope.

There is no solution coming. The dashboard you see is static. The balance it displays is fake. The site is being kept online not to serve users, but to exploit the few still willing to believe.

The Tesco scam is collapsing. That much is no longer speculation. It is evident in the unpaid withdrawals, the disappearing admins, the restricted group activity, and the website behaviour that toggles between visibility and evasion.

This is not a glitch. It is not temporary. It is not being fixed.

What you are seeing is a scam entering its final stretch. The last phase. The moment where every message becomes a hook, and every remaining victim is viewed not as a user, but as one last deposit before the lights go off.

If you are still in the system, it is not too late to stop further loss. But it is far too late to expect recovery.

This is not a delay. It is a carefully staged ending. And no matter how realistic the dashboard or hopeful the language, it leads nowhere.

Walk away. It’s over.