Nick Rivera
Pronouns: He/Him
Height: 6’2”
Build: Thin
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Black
Skin Color: Pale and a little gaunt
Occupation: Drug Dealer
Apparent Age: Mid 20s
Date of Birth: October 15th, 1975
Date of Embrace: August 28th, 2000
Sire: Unknown (believed destroyed during a Luxidine raid)
Childer: None
City Status: 3
City Title: Unknown
Clan: Nosferatu
Bloodline: Candymen
Clan Status: 3
Clan Title: Unknown
Covenant: Invictus
Covenant Title: Vassal
Visible Effects:
There’s nothing visibly wrong with Nick Rivera — no rotting flesh, no twisted limbs — and yet people flinch when he walks into a room. Mortals feel it first: a sickly churn in the gut, like the air’s gone stale or they’ve just remembered something awful they’d buried deep. He doesn’t need to snarl or posture — the dread rolls off him in quiet, invisible waves. His gaze lingers too long. His presence warps the vibe in a way no one can name, but everyone wants to get away from. Everyone except the ones who need him. The ones who shake when they’re sober. They hold their breath and come anyway.
Description:
Nick is lean, wiry, and always half-draped in shadow. His olive skin seems pale under neon and moonlight alike, giving him a waxy, sleepless look. His hair falls forward over sharp brows, slicked with rain, sweat, or blood depending on the night. He favours loud, floral shirts buttoned wrong or half-open, an old habit from warmer, wilder nights in Miami. There’s something too still about him, like his body forgot how to perform casual motion. Even standing still, he seems to lean toward you like a question you’d rather not answer.
His voice is soft, deliberate. When he speaks, people go quiet — not out of respect, but discomfort. You don’t want to interrupt him. You want him to stop talking.
But he never says more than he has to.
Personality:
Nick Rivera is a creature of quiet hunger. He’s the kind of predator who doesn’t chase — he waits. He knows the ache of addiction better than most, and he knows how to use it. He was a Candyman in Miami long before Luxidine swept in, pushing red market vitae and forbidden concoctions to the desperate and the damned. And when the fires started and the oppressors came, Nick disappeared — not because he fought, but because he knew when to slip. He’s still slipping. Still moving. Still surviving.
He speaks rarely, acts carefully, and watches everything. He has no interest in glory, but he has a deep and gnawing need for novelty. His desires are private and often unspoken — new cities, new minds, new highs. He’s dangerous, not because he’s flashy, but because he’s patient. And because you’ll never know what he’s really thinking until it’s too late.