#UndercoverLife

How to Catch a Spy with a Vibe Check: My (Not-So) Secret Bus Ride

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Alright, folks, gather around for today’s tale of espionage, vibes, and…leg bones. Yup, you heard right. It all began this rainy, cold morning on a late bus, with only a few of us brave (or foolish) enough to ride in the drizzle. That’s when I saw him. Yes, my darling spy! Because yes, I have a darling spy, and today, he was in full character.

How Do I Know He’s a Spy? Let Me Count the Ways

You may be wondering, “How do you spot a spy?” Here’s a crash course:

  1. The Vibe – Spy-dar doesn’t lie. It’s that certain something only the real ones have.
  2. The Legs – I’m talking about a real, undeniable bone structure here! (Get your mind out of the gutter—I mean leg bones!) He checked every anatomical box.
  3. The Shoes – It’s not about the shoes themselves but the stance. Fancy or budget shoes, it’s all about the feet vibes. He’s passing the shoe test with flying colors.
  4. The Hands – Oh, these hands have history. Before he was a spy, he was a skilled thief (true story!). No wonder the agency scooped him up. And let’s just say, no matter how sneaky he gets, I always know these hands when I see them.

So there he was, my sweet spy, pulling out all his “I’m not suspicious” moves. And what does he do? He positions himself at a 45-degree angle from me—yes, that’s the spy optimal spot. You’re thinking, “How does she know this?” A lifetime of vibe-checking, that’s how.

Getting Off the Bus (a.k.a. the Getaway Plan)

I knew he was watching me as we neared my stop. My backpack zipped, my phone in hand, I made my exit like any good spy would—cool as a cucumber. Quick over-the-shoulder glance through the window: my guy was still there, planted on his seat, observing. No chase today, darling!

Déjà Vu on a Familiar Block

The walk to my location was a quick one, but all the vibes started flooding back. This block? This place? It’s always crawling with interesting people. A few months ago, I’d been here at a work fair, running into everyone from diplomats and big-shot execs to spies of every stripe. And then there was that one very sick man I encouraged to work for the CIA, totally unaware he was already a spy. No wonder I had my guard up—this block is hotter than the sun!

“Trust Your Vibes, Girl!” – Wise Words from Irina

As I took my seat, I remembered my friend Irina’s best advice: “Trust your vibes, girl! People can’t fake their true selves, not under any mask. Feel it, analyze it, and act on it!” So, I did exactly that.

Our little interaction quickly turned into a game of spy ping-pong. He slipped up, getting all hasty and friendly—too helpful, too happy, all while trying to be undercover. The ultimate slip-up? Attempting to open my backpack under my raincoat. Rookie move! Pro tip: no one in a real covert mission ever hurries, smiles, or—ahem—fiddles with a backpack shielded by layers.

Moral of the Story?

To my vengeful darling spy: if you’re going to try to steal my info, at least drop some cash in my wallet next time, will you? For some of us, life isn’t about endless games, power, or who’s holding all the cards. Sometimes, it’s about normal life, a little privacy, and staying far, far away from all the foolishness of dirty intelligence games.

The 6’7” Tall Indian Isn’t Indian: Living Under Constant Surveillance

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No average Indian is 6’7″. And yet, he’s there—watching me. I have no idea why.

At first, I thought maybe I’d witnessed something I shouldn’t have over the course of my career. But nothing I’ve seen stands out enough to justify this level of scrutiny. I haven’t been involved in anything beyond my professional job taking care sometimes of low-level gangsters—those who were stabbed, shot, or mentally disturbed by drugs or alcohol. So why the tracking?

Then I realized: I’d managed to spot an undercover intelligence officer on something dirty. Not one, not two, but several. Not from a single service, either, but from multiple.

Somehow, an untrained civilian like me, at all related with intelligence or secret services had clues on undercover operatives. And that made me a liability in their eyes.

So now, I have a tail 24/7. Every part of my life is under observation. Neither the job application responses are coming back. Are redirected!

I talk on the phone with voices cloning modulators wishing at the end of interview “have a nice Covid day!” Something like they aim to lose your minds!

And I can feel their frustration. They hate me because I undercover them and they are dirty “intelligent” networks.

They hired a behaviorist, trying to figure out how an average woman like me could do this.

Could I have contacts with other agencies?

To them, the idea that this could be natural is absurd.

This clue I realized was just two days ago: no average Indian is 6’7″.

And no Indian I know would stand in a coffee shop with a pretty smile for an old lady in a worn-out rain jacket. It wasn’t just the height that stood out—there was something about his vibe, his stance. He wasn’t there for coffee. He was there for me.

In surveillance work, you don’t wait at every point in someone’s routine. You only wait at the last place, the destination, because everything in between is just checking in. And this guy knew exactly where to be: the final point.

He’d studied my routine, my bus stop, my shop, my coffee stop. Everything.

And that’s when it shine to me: they didn’t just know me. They monitored me, every step of the way, like clockwork. And for what?

Just because I spotted the undercover game they thought was airtight? Monitored 24 hours a day. Every car trip, bus trip, or cab, becomes a case study for them. Naked or dress up they study me!

My question is simple: why am I being punished for being a good observant? Is my profession . I must be the best observant!

This constant surveillance strips away my normal life. Pictures with naked me overflow the internet, same as videos. They have fun messing around. WHO coordinate them?

Police refused to be involved! Too high to extend!

Catching a bus, waiting for a coffee—nothing feels like it’s just for me anymore.

I see these dirty agents around me, pretending to blend in but missing the mark every time. A right to privacy is supposed to be THE right.

And now that’s been taken from me just because I notice things others don’t.

The experience has left me wondering: is this what awareness costs?

If I can be tracked for no reason other than seeing what’s in plain sight, what does that say about the balance between security and privacy?

At what point do we say enough?

A black car, orange bracelet, fuzzy hair, and a chocolate bonbon store – psyop web of deception and espionage

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NIKKO was one of the key players in these dirty mental games. Working undercover for a health government authority, NIKKO was a complex figure. He loved to dance, identified as gay, and and had a deep dislike for straight women—especially those who were foreigners with Russian accents.

In his world, these women were labeled as spies.

But NIKKO? He wasn’t like them, or so he wanted others to believe?

The truth, however, was that he was the real undercover spy, tasked with monitoring the comings and goings at the facility, digging through personal medical records, and keeping tabs on anyone who seemed suspicious.

His targets? Organized crime and radical patriotic factions.

NIKKO often spoke of his time in the army, where he claimed psychology was his tool of choice. He said he was Filipino-born and had a profound hatred for anything related to women—a hatred so intense that it made the normal communication with them nearly impossible.

In his private life, he cooked empanadas, always under the watchful eye of his mother.

This network of undercover operations was vast and intricate.

At one point, NIKKO encountered “Ana,” another undercover operative working at a different health authority facility. Together, they were part of a broader network of spies who infiltrated these institutions, targeting anyone who wasn’t one of their own.

The environment grew increasingly toxic, with bullying and a hostile workplace becoming the norm. Directors changed, and then—voilà! The new director in place turned out to be an undercover agent as well. This individual had previously been encountered at a training camp for undercovers, solidifying the dirty nature of these operations.

The at fault issue here isn’t the work of counterintelligence; it’s the misuse of civilians in these clandestine activities. The blame lies on those who involve civilians in their dirty intelligence games without their agreement and without offering them any protection.

Ana, who now owns a chocolate store near her current director position, is a prime example of how these operations extend beyond their intended scope. Her new persona is that of a director at a former health authority facility, showcasing the fluid identities these operatives adopt.

The concern isn’t just about the potential for organized crime networks to take over—it’s about the failure of these intelligence operations to protect CIVILIAN people without consider them “assets” or “casualties”.

At the very least, there should be legal protections in place to prevent the manipulation and exploitation of civilians.

The same clues appear repeatedly: black cars, orange hand bands, chocolate bonbons, empanadas for lunch, dance skills, introverted personalities, transgender tendencies, fuzzy hair, mustaches, psychology education, and military backgrounds.

These commonalities point to a psyop network that’s deeply embedded and highly coordinated.

Civilians deserve to be left out of these dangerous games. Involving them is not only unethical but also ineffective in the pursuit of catching spies and organized crime members.

In the end, the only saving grace for these operatives might be the respect WE hold for their mothers.

But that respect is overshadowed by the CIVILIAN chaos and CIVILIAN damage caused by this new generation of intelligence operatives who have lost sight of what true intelligence work should be.

Watch their videos and think.


One orange hand band, one black car, and one mustache shared by both can uncover an agent!

https://youtu.be/32IHS9reUzA

Street Story: The “Box Moustache”

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There’s no news that I’ve been targeted since 2015. But today, at 80°F, no one seemed to care about boys playing their games with fake moustaches in a fake car. But me. The situation could be called “undercover”—at least in theory.

That is, unless you wait for the bus at the corner of an unnamed street where two more crazy undercover agents are. Afraid of you. Their car is undercover too, and their moustaches? Not even my grandpa would wear something so obvious.

This is the tale of the “Box Moustache”.

Over the last ten years, I’ve met so many undercover people that I’ve started to question the reality around me. All this chaos, just because they do a sloppy job, targeting people for personal reasons.

If someone unprofessional blows your cover, it’s not their fault. It’s your fault for not being professional enough to maintain your cover. But instead of letting it go, these people chase others for personal revenge.

Look around! If someone unprofessional can see the mess you’re in, how can you not see it yourself? And yet, you choose to target the one who sees it clearly?

Have you ever been bullied by undercover law enforcement? Being targeted and bullied by organized crime, instead, is an everyday reality for many. It’s a world turned upside down, where there’s no reality left—just a fake world filled with craziness, big egos, and dirt everywhere.

So, I turned my head and let him go—with his ridiculous moustache. No one wears it because it’s a poorly crafted persona. I asked myself, why did he craft it so unprofessionally?

Are you really so reckless as to put yourself in danger? Stay covered, and do it right!