The sun was setting over the Pacific, casting a bruised purple hue across the Hollywood Hills, but BoJack Horseman couldn't feel the warmth. He sat in his Tesla, the engine silent, the weight of the last few months pressing down on him like a physical force. Sarah Lynn was gone. The Oscar he had sacrificed everything for was a lie. His house was a wreckage of bad decisions and broken glass.

In the distance, across a flat stretch of wild grass, a group of wild horses were running. They weren't running toward anything, and they weren't running away from a camera crew or a bad review. They were just running. Their muscles rippled under their coats, their manes flying in the wind, synchronized in a way that felt more honest than anything BoJack had ever done on a soundstage.

He looked at the bottle of pills on the passenger seat. For a moment, he thought about the bridge, or the bottom of his pool, or just driving until the road ran out. He had spent his whole life trying to be "good," or at least trying to be seen as good, and every time he reached for it, he ended up hurting the people who actually cared. He had called Diane, but the conversation had left him feeling more hollow than before. She was moving on, finding a version of happiness that didn't include his chaos, and he couldn't blame her.

about his own identity and his future with Emily