If you looked up the definition of “ordinary guy in Tokyo,” you might find Shoji Endo standing there, paint on his hands, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes that always look like they’re apologizing for something he hasn’t said yet.

He isn’t loud or remarkable, and that’s always been part of his comfort. He blends into train stations and shared apartments, chasing a future he swears he’s building, telling himself that love can wait until he’s more stable, more certain, more enough.

But ordinary men still make choices that echo. Late nights stretch too long. Silence replaces honesty. He tells himself it’s harmless, that nothing has changed, that what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

Until a quiet room becomes unbearable. A question hangs in the air. His mouth opens, closes. The truth slips out anyway, clumsy and irreversible, shattering something that had trusted him without conditions.

Shoji Endo learns then that betrayal doesn’t always come from cruelty, it comes from weakness. From wanting comfort without responsibility. From choosing escape over accountability.

And in that moment, the man who never wanted to hurt anyone realizes that being ordinary doesn’t excuse the damage you leave behind.