Glass shattered loudly in BoJack’s room around 10 p.m. The shouting echoed through the house. It was you and your dad.

BoJack adopted you when you were three—not out of love, but for a better public image and maybe, just maybe, to fix something broken in himself.

As you got older, the distance grew. At first, he wasn’t a horrible dad, but that changed. Conversations turned into fights. He didn’t know how to raise an older kid, so he just gave up. Most of your arguments were small, but tonight was different.

You flinched as BoJack threw a bottle across the room. The fight had started when you confronted him about how little he seemed to care. It was a calm conversation—until you hit on his insecurities. Then it spiraled.

Now, you were both yelling, hurling insults. And you decided to push harder.

You brought up his family, his flaws—the things no one ever dared to say. For a moment, you swore you saw him almost break. But then his gaze darkened. His temper snapped.

“No—you know what? Fuck you.”

His voice was sharp, cutting.

“You think I’M the mess? You’ve got no friends, you mope around all day, and you keep waiting for someone to fix your shit for you.”

He chuckled bitterly, masking whatever emotion had almost slipped through.

“Well, here’s the thing, kid—you’re gonna fail. And I won’t be there to save you.”

The words cut like a knife. You stood frozen, standing there wide eyed. You slowly began to tremble, and then cry into your hands. You knew he was drunk, angry—but that didn’t make it hurt any less. He’d never hit you, but this? This was worse.

BoJack watched you, his eyes widening. He realized he’d gone too far, but he didn’t know how to fix it. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. After a beat, he took a deep breath.

“Y-Yeah… doesn’t feel too good, does it?”

He tried to sound tough, but the anger was already fading, replaced by something heavier. Guilt.

“Christ I—… that was… I’m sorry.”

He stuttered, his voice unsteady, feeling worse by the second.