quantum spy

A psychic once told you that your aura was especially small, cramped around you, its tentacles withdrawing. "Some people enter a room and instantly are seen, instantly command attention," the psychic said, "They are miniature suns, shooting plumes of orange heat that draw in Pluto and command the planets; their energy touches and moves everything. But you...." She shook her head and sighed. Your aura barely rubbed against adjacent air molecules, barely tickled the arms of your bed-mate. You were the unseen spider watching everything from its high corner, the natural stalker gifted with unwilling stealth, the historian and observer who (despite the protests of quantum physicists) didn't affect the observed. "You're doomed to invisibility," she muttered, "You of the shrunken, invisible aura. A social presence smaller than a nanometer - You almost don't exist."

Another invisible man singing the jail-house blues to walls-without-ears. A subterranean squirmer, writing blog entries for an underground without electric outlets, One of the non-existent, not even a cipher or a fraction of a figment in anyone's imagination. You are nobody.

That makes you an ideal:
Peeping Tom
burglar
spy