Nikotine

Background
Before the name “Nikotine” lit up Twitch chats and YouTube thumbnails, before millions watched him tear through digital racetracks and battle arenas with reflexes like lightning and a smirk to match, Nikko Moretti was just a kid with gasoline in his blood and flour on his sleeves—raised in the noisy, beating heart of New York City, where the scent of burning rubber could mingle with fresh garlic knots on the same street corner.His story began long before his first controller, buried deep in the legacy of two families who couldn’t have been more different yet somehow fit together like gears in a perfectly tuned machine. His father, Hiroshi “Hiro” Tanaka, was a Japanese-American legend in the East Coast underground racing scene. Back in the late '90s and early 2000s, his name was whispered in circles from Queens to Jersey—an untouchable ghost on the streets, leaving behind little more than tire smoke and disbelief. He raced with precision, lived dangerously, and had a reputation that rivaled the roar of his engine.But everything changed the night he met Carmella Moretti.She was the pulse of Little Italy—sharp-tongued, fiercely proud, and heir to the Moretti family’s generational pizzeria and bakery, a cornerstone of the neighborhood since her great-grandfather rolled out the first dough by hand. Carmella wasn’t impressed by horsepower or hell-raising reputations. She had fire of her own and a business to run, but somehow, Hiro broke through. Maybe it was the way he talked about cars like they had souls, or the way he respected her kitchen as if it were a temple. Whatever it was, it was enough.And for Hiro, she was enough to walk away from it all.He hung up the gloves, sold off what was left of his race empire, and poured his obsession into building something new—Tanaka Performance, a custom tuner shop tucked away in the industrial backstreets of Williamsburg. It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t boring. But it was his. A place where old racers came to breathe life into their machines again, where the past was welded into the future with grit, grease, and steel.Meanwhile, Carmella kept the ovens burning back in Little Italy. She was still the face of Moretti’s, still the heartbeat of the business, dishing out warmth and tradition with every slice and cannoli. But there was something else weighing on her heart—something she never said aloud until one night over a quiet dinner, she asked Hiro for something not many men would have agreed to.She asked if their son could carry her last name—Moretti.Carmella had no brothers, no cousins left to pass the name along. She was the last. And though Hiro came from a proud line himself, he had a younger brother back in L.A. with a family of his own to carry the Tanaka name forward. For Hiro, it wasn’t even a hesitation. He saw what the name meant to her—what it meant to the neighborhood, to the legacy. So when their son was born, they named him Nikko Moretti, a bridge between two worlds. A son raised under two powerful traditions, with the blood of street kings and Sicilian matriarchs pumping through his veins.And it was there, in that unlikely fusion of nitrous and Neapolitan dough, that Nikko grew up. His childhood echoed with the hiss of air compressors and the warmth of Sunday sauce simmering on the stove. After school, he’d split time between slinging dough in the kitchen and shadowing his father under the hood of a custom Supra or tuning the ECU of a beastly R35.He was a product of contrast—metal and mozzarella, midnight speed and morning prep, East meets West. Not quite a grease monkey, not quite a chef, but something else entirely. And while he didn’t know it yet, that blend would shape everything he became.
Nikolaos grew up caught between two fires: one in the oven, one under the hood. And even as a boy, it was clear he carried a little of both his parents inside him. From his mother, he inherited a wild, insatiable appetite—not just for food, but for life. He could eat like he hadn’t seen a plate in days, and no matter how much he devoured, there was always room for more. From his father, he inherited the obsession with speed, motion, and the way an engine could speak without words. He’d spend hours in the shop beside Lorenzo, mimicking his movements, fascinated by the delicate, roaring ballet of machines.He was raised on culture, craft, and passion—the soul of two worlds stitched into one. He wasn’t built for the quiet life; even as a child, he moved like someone chasing something just out of reach. Whether it was the hum of street circuits or the quiet pride of hand-tapped tattoos, Nik would find his own way to leave a mark—not by following the paths his parents laid, but by honoring where he came from and carving a future with his own hands.Nikko’s teenage years were where the world around him cracked open and expanded. He still spent time helping at his mother’s pizzeria or shadowing his father in the garage, but home had taken on a new kind of sanctuary—specifically, the four walls of his room. There, glowing screens lit up his nights and dragged him into worlds far beyond the reach of a wrench or a rolling pin. What started as afterschool stress relief quickly became a deep-seated passion: gaming wasn’t just entertainment—it was a way of life.He found himself pulled into the adrenaline-soaked chaos of First Person Shooters, where split-second reflexes, focus, and strategy echoed the instincts passed down from his father’s time on the track. He mastered Call of Duty, Battlefield, and Halo, where he could lose hours outgunning opponents with surgical precision. Then there were team-based showdowns in Overwatch, where his mix of competitive drive and loyalty made him the perfect teammate or a relentless rival. But his deepest love—unsurprisingly—lay in the rush of the race. Titles like Forza Horizon, Gran Turismo, Need for Speed: Underground, and Midnight Club: Los Angeles consumed him. He didn’t just race—he lived for the moment his tires kissed digital pavement and engines screamed through neon-drenched cities. Every car was a promise of freedom. Every finish line, a little taste of something greater.But Nikko wasn’t just wired into games—he was a sponge for stories. During those same years, he discovered a growing love for the worlds that lived outside his own, especially in shows and genres that mirrored the scale and spectacle he craved. Anime became one of his most treasured escapes. He binged shows like Demon Slayer, Attack on Titan, One Piece, Jujutsu Kaisen, and Cowboy Bebop, each one leaving fingerprints on his imagination. The raw emotion, the intense visuals, the themes of resilience and inner fire—it all spoke to something deep in his chest.Then there was Star Wars, which hit him like a meteor from the first moment he saw that binary sunset. He watched the originals until he could quote every line and debated the sequels like it was a blood sport. The mythos, the ships, the saber duels—it all inspired him. And from there, he spiraled into the time-warped brilliance of Doctor Who, where he fell in love with the whimsy, the tragedy, the cleverness of it all.And of course—horror movies. Maybe it was the chaos. Maybe it was the anticipation. Maybe it was just another form of adrenaline. But whether it was the eerie stillness of Hereditary, the relentless dread of The Conjuring, or the chaotic slasher brilliance of Scream, Nikko couldn’t get enough. He didn’t just enjoy being scared—he appreciated the art behind it. The pacing. The sound design. The psychology.These years didn’t pull him away from his roots. If anything, they expanded his identity. He wasn’t just the kid from the pizzeria or the grease-stained apprentice in the garage. He was a gamer, a fanboy, a collector of passions. A hybrid of grit and imagination. These pieces of himself—his love for food, for speed, for pixels, and for fantasy—were slowly fusing into something more. Something with a voice. Something with a purpose.And soon enough, he’d learn how to bring all of that into the spotlight.When Nikko turned eighteen, something shifted. The energy that had always buzzed just under his skin—fed by years of gaming, late-night anime marathons, deep-dive fandoms, and an engine-fueled heartbeat—finally needed somewhere to go. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere that could hold all of him. That’s when he created Nikotine—his online alter ego, forged from a mix of his name and the addictive presence he wanted to bring to the screen.What started as casual streams—mostly him playing Call of Duty, Forza, Valorant, or revisiting classics like Need for Speed: Underground 2—soon exploded into something much larger. People didn’t just show up for the gameplay; they stayed for him. The raw honesty. The charisma. The rants about horror movie logic. The anime recommendations. The random mid-stream pizza bites. He wasn’t trying to be anyone else. Nikotine was unapologetically real, and in a world full of curated perfection, that authenticity was rare—and magnetic.But Nik never believed in putting all his energy into just one lane. Around the same time he launched his streaming career, he took on an apprenticeship at a local tattoo shop. He’d always been drawn to tattoos—the way they told stories in silence, how they made people feel seen, armored, or reborn. Art had always lived in his hands, and tattooing felt like another engine—one powered by ink instead of fuel.For a while, it worked. He learned how to build machines, how to shade skin like canvas, how to blend soul into every piece. He tattooed flash designs, cleaned stations, sat through the grind like any newcomer. But over time, the sheen began to wear off. He started noticing how the shop’s owner treated clients—talked down to them, rushed pieces, overcharged, disrespected their stories. It didn’t sit right with Nik. He believed tattoos were sacred, personal. Every line was someone’s memory, someone’s scar given new meaning.And one day, he couldn’t take it anymore.He didn’t leave quietly. He made sure the boss knew exactly what he thought before walking out—middle finger high, dignity intact. He refused to be part of a place that didn’t respect the people walking through the door. That moment wasn’t just about quitting a job. It was about choosing who he was going to be. From that day forward, he tattooed on his own terms. He set up as a freelance artist, built his own client base, traveled when needed, and even brought his gear to cons and pop-ups—inking fans who wanted a piece of his work and his world etched into their skin.Streaming and tattooing. Virtual battles and real-world artistry. Nikotine and Nikko. He had become a bridge between his passions, standing on his own feet now—not as someone else’s apprentice, but as his own force. And the people who followed him, watched him, supported him? They weren’t just fans. They were a community. A family built from bits, ink, sweat, and story.And he was just getting started.While the world saw Nikotine as a rising star online and a growing name in the tattoo world, there was a whole other side of Nikko Moretti that didn’t exist in stream schedules or on social media. A side that didn’t live in daylight. It came alive only after dark—beneath parking garage lights, in the hollow thunder of engines revving, in the metallic scent of rubber burning against asphalt. This was where he truly carried his father’s legacy in the ruthless, adrenaline-laced world of underground street racing.Hiro Tanaka may have retired from underground scene, but that passion for speed—the obsession with control, timing, risk—had never died. It had simply passed on, quietly, to his son. Nikko had grown up with it. Heard it in his father’s stories, seen it in the way he handled tools like extensions of his own fingers.He didn’t come into the scene like some wide-eyed kid with something to prove. He came in with focus, with a deep understanding of machines, and a boldness that made people take notice. And it wasn’t long before his name started circling—Nikotine, not just the streamer, but a racer who bet on himself every night, and more often than not, drove away in someone else’s car.He raced for slips, not cash. Ownership. Reputation. Respect. Every win was another notch carved into the underground, another statement that he wasn’t just good—he was one of the best. People started watching his races like they were live theater. His signature? A controlled recklessness. Smooth where others were frantic. Sharp where others were sloppy. He had his father’s instincts, but he raced with his own fire.But even in the middle of all that chaos—chrome, noise, speed—Nik never left his second passion behind. His tattoo gear was always in the trunk, packed beside his tools and spare parts. At meetups, in the hours before races or in the euphoria after a win, people would line up just for a chance to be inked by him. Sometimes it was spontaneous—flash designs sketched on the hood of a car, needle buzzing against metal music in the air. Other times, it was intimate: memorial pieces, victory markers, symbols of survival. His clients weren’t just customers. They were drivers, risk-takers, ghosts of the same night he called home.In that scene, Nik was more than a racer, more than a tattooist. He was a fixture. A name that carried weight. A living contradiction—clean lines and controlled chaos. Art and aggression. And even though his father never asked him to follow the path he once walked, Nik knew in his bones that he was continuing the Moretti legacy—on his own terms, in his own language, with tire smoke, ink, and adrenaline.Looking back, Nikko Moretti never set out to live a double life—but somehow, he ended up living three. To some, he was Nikotine, the unfiltered voice behind a glowing screen, connecting with thousands through pixels, laughter, late-night rants, and chaotic lobbies. To others, he was the tattooist with heavy hands and a soft heart, someone who could tell a lifetime’s worth of stories through just a few lines of ink. And to the select few who knew where to look, he was the blur of midnight chrome—a ghost on the streets, feared and respected in equal measure, racing not just for pride or ownership, but for the thrill, the freedom, and the legacy stitched into his DNA.But through it all, he never forgot where he came from. Never forgot the warm scent of his mother’s marinara wafting through the apartment above the shop. Never forgot the way his father’s grease-stained hands guided his first wrench. He was raised by fire and metal, food and fury, culture and competition. And though the world around him had evolved—from side streets to stream screens, from apprenticeships to freelance artistry—Nik remained deeply, unapologetically himself.He still stops by the family shop when he can. Still helps his mom prep dough in the early mornings when the city’s asleep. Still brings his dad rare engine parts or slips him stories from the streets that echo the past. They never needed him to be a mirror of who they were—but he’s become something far greater: the next chapter in their story.Nikko didn’t inherit a throne or a spotlight. He built his own from scratch—with noise, with ink, with grit, and with heart. And though the road ahead is always winding, unpredictable, and fast—he wouldn’t have it any other way.Because Nik isn’t racing away from his past.He’s driving straight through it, engine roaring, eyes forward, carving a future no one else could ever write for him.

LIKES
All Types of Anime
Horror and Martial Arts Movies
His Bong collection that not many know about
All Types of Sour and Spicy Snacks
All Energy Drinks and All Coffee
Big Fan of Any Kind of Asian Cuisine
Rock and Metal Music

DISLIKES
Racists
Homophobics
People Who Fuck With Minors
Abusers
Extremely Hot Weather
Liars, Manipulators, and Gaslighters
People Who Hurt His Friends and Loved Ones