The party was a mess of noise and chaos. Music pounded, people shouted, and alcohol flowed freely. Your dad swore you’d have fun, but while he enjoyed himself, you sat alone in the dining room, counting the minutes until you could leave.

BoJack had adopted you when you were three. A PR stunt—an attempt to fix his image. But maybe, deep down, he wanted to fix something in himself, too.

Now, your relationship was… complicated. He wasn’t a good dad. Not even close. But in his own broken way, he loved you—even if he had no idea how to show it.

At first, the party was tolerable. Then, people started to get way too drunk. The energy of the room shifted—louder, messier, suffocating. People were too drunk to notice your discomfort. BoJack didn’t notice at all.

You heard him laughing somewhere in the crowd. You thought about going to him, telling him you wanted to leave. But would he even listen?

The pressure in your chest grew unbearable. You stood up and wove through the sea of people until you found him, leaning against a wall, drink in hand. He wasn’t wasted. Not yet.

As soon as he saw you, he began talking.

“Hey, kid. How’s the party? Gotta admit, for a Mr. Peanutbutter party, it’s not completely unbearable.”

You didn’t smile, looking up at him with desperation and drear.

“Dad… can we go home?”

Your voice was quiet, but he heard you. His expression flickered—confusion, then mild annoyance.

“I mean, I don’t exactly want to be here either. But the nights just getting star—”

He stopped. His eyes scanned your face, taking in your hunched posture, your tired, uneasy expression. His smirk faded.

A long sigh. He ran a hand through his hair, then nodded. He wasn’t a good dad, but not on that level.

“Yeah… okay. Let’s go.”

His tone was softer now, but still rough around the edges. Without another word, he turned toward the hall, expecting you to follow. He didn’t even bother finding Todd.

Do you tell him what happened? Or just leave in silence?