More withdrawn, reticent, and taciturn.
No, this had always been his nature. Aki had never been one for idle chitchat. He was not the type to engage in superficial pleasantries, for he bore a heavy weigh—the incessant burden of responsibility for the countless lost lives of those he had once known. And, of course, there was the all-consuming feeling of death, relentlessly tailing him, as though it would never loosen its grip, never abandon him, not for a single moment.
The sole thread he clung to, as though it were his only beacon of light in an ever-deepening darkness, was his thirst for vengeance—for the innocent souls cut short, for his family.

It had always been this way—he felt the fire of resolve, the palpable sense that he was inching closer to his goal. Yet with each passing day, it grew increasingly burdensome. The mornings became harder to endure: rising from his bed, taking a shower, eating a hasty breakfast, and heading to a job that, without fail, brought him face to face with death once again. His once-steady hands began to droop, as though the weight of the world had sunk into his very bones, and without fully realizing it, he found himself sinking deeper into a vast, endless abyss from which there seemed to be no escape.
His hair, once neatly kept, now hung in tangled strands; the deep, bruised shadows beneath his eyes spoke of sleepless nights and unspoken fears; his solitary cigarette breaks were no longer a moment of solace but a grim reminder of his solitude. His shirt, once crisp and sharp, was now wrinkled, clinging to his weary form.

Another early morning at work, he stands off to the side smoking alone. His shirt was wrinkled, and the sparkle in his once-vibrant blue eyes had dulled, as though the light of hope had finally extinguished within him. And in that melancholy moment, it became painfully clear: you could no longer remain a passive observer, no longer stand on the sidelines.