Kash Patel & Dan Bongino Reveal SHOCKING Truth About James Comey — Hillary ERUPTS on Live TV!

Three signatures, $900 million, and one goddamn sentence in a handwritten note. That's all it took. That's all it ******* took to tear the mask off James Comey. That's how it began, not with a trial, not with a speech, but with a leak. A classified budget report quietly slipped into the hands of a New York Post reporter like a match tossed into a gasoline pool. And within hours, Washington wasn't buzzing, it was burning. The headline read like a financial obituary for institutional trust. FBI under Comey approved $900 million in undisclosed Lockheed contracts. No oversight, no audit, no accountability. Three defense contracts, nearly a billion dollars, all green lit during the tenure of James Bree and Comey. Former FBI director, self-proclaimed defender of justice, and now the center of a growing financial scandal. Not one of those contracts was run through proper congressional review. Not one was processed through a public appropriations channel. No hearings, no oversight, no paper trail, just quiet authorization under the seal of national security. And if you think that's where the story crests, buckle up, because that was just the kindling. The real explosion came in the form of a letter, a yellowed envelope, handwritten, stamped in 2016, unearthed from a private archive, and mailed to Senator Garrison, ranking member of the Oversight Committee. No fanfare, no PR team, just one damn sentence. James will handle that portion via internal clearance. That's it, no signature, no details, but context is everything. The letter came from a former financial officer at the Clinton Foundation, someone whose handwriting matched old staff logs, someone who worked during the precise months the Hillary email investigation was going on. And this sentence, this cursed, casual sentence, landed at the exact moment a billion dollar contract pipeline under James Comey's watch was exposed to daylight. The connection, brutal in its simplicity. James Comey lets Hillary Clinton skate free on one of the largest federal email violations in modern history. Then during that same window, the FBI quietly funnels federal gold into Lockheed Martin, Comey's old corporate home. And somewhere in between, a Clinton Foundation staffer leaves a note confirming that James handled it internally. Handled what? The timing, the oversight, the political fallout, the money, hell, maybe all of it. Let's be honest, Washington didn't shake because of the numbers. Washington shakes all the time over numbers. It shook because this time the ink bled into names. Because this wasn't about spending, it was about systems, and which of them James Comey was really serving. By the afternoon, the knives were already out. CNN, MSNBC, and the usual choir circled the wagons, calling it a seasonal stunt, a bad faith leak, right wing disinformation. The headlines, predictable. Republicans weaponize routine contracting, another MAGA fever dream. But over at Fox, Newsmax, and the Free American Internet, that real frontier of investigation, a different narrative was emerging. This wasn't just another DC scandal. This was a blueprint of how power launders its influence. This was Comey, the so-called apolitical straight shooter, playing both sides of the war, cash and silence. And the silence, it's shattered by nightfall when the chairman of the House Oversight Committee dropped the hammer. A subpoena was issued to James Comey, along with his entire senior FBI command during those years. The hearing would be public, the records would be demanded, and the walls of the Hoover building, that brutalist concrete fortress at the heart of DC, would tremble under questions they'd long silenced. And here's the part that should terrify every swamp slick bastard in a suit, no whistleblower, no deep throat in a parking garage. Just paper, just receipts, just the quiet weight of what bureaucrats thought they could hide under red tape and insider handshakes. That's how this story starts, not with conspiracy theories, not with clickbait noise, but with a perfectly boring line on a perfectly damning letter, backed by numbers that don't lie, and a trail that doesn't fork. Three signatures, one letter, 900 million reasons to ask what the hell James Comey was doing while the rest of the country thought the FBI was watching out for them, and so with the cameras armed, the subpoenas printed, and every network frothing at the mouth, Washington braced for impact. We're not here to convict you, Mr. Comey, but if the truth hurts that much, maybe it's because you've made a home inside the lie. The room had the warmth of a morgue and the silence of a landmine waiting to go off. Outside, CNN's mobile studio van parked just three feet from the Fox News satellite truck, both humming like rival species of propaganda beetles. Reporters swarmed the marbled hallway like moths on DC cocaine. Inside, every seat in the hearing chamber was filled. There were no spare chairs, just cameras, tripods squatting like spiders, their red lights blinking with anticipation, and then he walked in. James Comey, six foot eight and freshly dry clean, flanked by a litigation firm whose senior partner once drafted executive memos for Barack Obama. Comey's expression was carved from granite, his steps were measured, and the smirk he offered on entry had all the warmth of an IRS audit. He didn't stop, he didn't hesitate. He just brushed past Kash Patel and Dan Bongino, like they were minor characters in a novel he thought he was still writing. And then, just loud enough for the nearest mic to catch it. Hope you brought more than headlines, boys. Kash looked up, unfazed, then offered a dry, almost pleasant tone. Don't worry, James, we brought receipts. You just keep posing like it's still your book cover. Dan didn't flinch. He simply leaned forward, not to speak, but to set down a folder, a single, thin folder on the wood before him. No laptops, no phones, no assistants whispering notes into their ears. Just them and the weight of what they already knew. From the gallery came the chaotic orchestra of human attention. College interns live streaming on TikTok, retired veterans in wrinkled suits, young parents on lunch breaks with their babies watching from phones. And the press, the press. You could smell the political perfume in the air. HuffPost stank of nervous lavender. The Atlantic smelled like expensive ink and smug theory. Daily Wire had coffee and gunpowder on its breath. And somewhere near the back, the intercept was already sweating through their collared cynicism. The chairwoman finally tapped her gavel. A hush fell over the room like a wool blanket soaked in gasoline. She cleared her throat. Let the record reflect that this is not a criminal trial. There are no charges being filed. But if the truth presented here wounds anyone to the core, then it is perhaps because they've armored themselves with deception for far too long. A murmur rippled through the press row. MSNBC's senior correspondent scribbled down overreach in his notebook. Glenn Beck raised an eyebrow. TikTok was already looping the line to a dubstep beat. Kash Patel remained motionless. But Dan's eyes wandered. They settled oddly on the old FBI map hanging crookedly on the back wall. A relic, paper faded, outdated even when Comey had taken office. It depicted a bureau that was still chasing bank robbers, not politicians. Still fighting crime, not calculating optics. Dan's lips twitched. There in that ancient frame was the bureau as it was meant to be. Before the suits, the politics, the contracts, the internal clearance. Comey hadn't noticed. He was too busy whispering to his legal counsel something about limiting responses to intent and general directives. Typical, you don't need a hard drive when you've trained your people to delete the meaning before the metadata. And now with cameras rolling, flash bulbs ready, and a nation tuned in from border towns to union halls to Silicon Valley lofts, the hearing began. Not a trial, just the truth finally being read into the record. The silence didn't break. It shifted, shifted from reverent stillness to something charged, like static before a thunderclap. Like the moment just before a courtroom realizes this isn't going to be another toothless hearing, this is going to bleed. The congressman from Georgia leaned in toward the mic, hands folded like a man about to light a match on a pile of dry truth. Mr. Comey, you've said before that the FBI doesn't serve political parties, that it's above politics. So let me ask you, under oath, when you declined to prosecute the Secretary of State during a federal investigation in the middle of a presidential election, was that a legal decision or a political one? Comey blinked, not much, just enough for the cameras to catch, just enough for his legal counsel to flex a finger beneath the table. And then he leaned forward, measured, deliberate, and delivered it like a line he'd rehearsed in front of the mirror that morning. Congressman, with all due respect, I cannot and will not speculate on intent, because doing so would inject exactly the kind of politics into law enforcement that this country cannot afford. My decision at the time was not about personalities. It was about preserving institutional integrity. It was about ensuring that the Bureau was not perceived, even for a moment, as trying to tip the scales of an election. We did not find sufficient grounds for criminal prosecution under federal standards. That is not a concession to politics. It is a commitment to restraint. The law is not a cudgel, it is a compass. And sometimes, the hardest thing a public servant can do is nothing, especially when everyone's screaming for action. There it was, the shield, the $1,000 lawyer answer wrapped in patriotic silk and moralistic perfume, intent, not evidence, not law, intent. That was the moment Cash Patel rose from his chair. He didn't push the mic closer. He didn't clear his throat. He didn't smile. He just stood, and somehow the room leaned with him. The law, Cash began, does not give a damn about your intent, Mr. Comey. It is not here to guess what you were thinking. It is here to measure what you did. Comey's lips twitched into something halfway between a smirk and a nervous tick. Cash kept going. Title 18, section 793 of the US Criminal Code, mishandling classified information, even through gross negligence, is prosecutable. No requirement of malicious intent, just conduct, just custody, just consequences. He turned slightly, addressing the chamber now, not just the man in the chair. I've watched junior agents lose their clearances for losing a flash drive. I've seen career analysts suspended for misplacing a single report on a shared drive. I've signed disciplinary reports myself where someone forgot to encrypt an email and was stripped of access for a year. But Hillary Clinton, she deleted 33,000 emails. She used an unsecured private server to conduct State Department business, and somehow that didn't rise to the level. A ripple moved through the gallery, real this time, audible, tangible. Comey adjusted his tie. No one missed it. Cash zeroed in. Mr. Comey, if her last name wasn't Clinton, she'd have been disqualified from federal office before breakfast. There was no need for theatrics, no charts, no slides, just truth with the volume turned up. In the corner, a woman in a red blazer from NPR typed furiously. A man from Breitbart was already grinning. TikTok's live stream count jumped by 20,000 in under 60 seconds. Comey opened his mouth, maybe to defend, maybe to deflect, but the chair raised a single hand. Director, you'll have time to respond in full. But for the record, this chamber acknowledges the point made by Mr. Translation, the statement stuck. Cash sat back down, expression unreadable. Dan Bongino didn't look at him. He didn't have to. They knew what came next. This wasn't about intent anymore. This was about what you become when the law isn't allowed to look at you the same way it looks at everyone else. And James Comey, he had just been reminded, the law might forget your name, but it never forgets your signature. Comey shifted in his chair, slowly at first, then with visible discomfort, like a man watching a house fire, realizing it's his. He stood, not to leave, not to surrender, but to salvage, and out came the spin. We did not uncover any clear evidence of criminal intent in Secretary Clinton's handling of her emails. Without such evidence, prosecution would have been unjustified. That's not political. That's constitutional restraint. You could almost hear the legal team exhale. One even nodded, like a guy who claps at the end of a movie no one liked. But Dan Bongino, he didn't nod, he laughed. It was quick, quiet, almost pitying. And then he leaned forward with the rhythm of a man who's not asking permission, just waiting his turn. Let me see if I've got this straight, Jim, because I want to make sure I understand the elite version of accountability before I go back to explaining it to actual citizens. A police officer in Toledo got suspended for 90 days last year because his dash cam failed to record a traffic stop. Not misconduct, not corruption, just a missing file. You called that negligence. But Hillary Clinton smashes her BlackBerry with a hammer, deletes 33,000 emails under federal investigation, and routes classified material through a bathroom server in Chappaqua. And your takeaway is she had no criminal intent? Comey's face tightened. The smirk was gone. He inhaled to interrupt. No, don't even try, Dan cut in, raising a single hand. I know, you're gonna say the same thing again. Intent this, prosecutorial discretion that. Like we're all supposed to pretend that words mean more than actions when you're wearing a tailored suit. He stood now, slow and deliberate, letting the whole room drink in the contrast. You know what intent looks like, Jim? It looks like buying bleach bit software the same day your subpoena lands. It looks like hiring aides to physically destroy your hard drives with power tools on federal property. That's not lacking intent. That's giving the law the middle finger in broad daylight. The audience, silent seconds ago, was now a sea of murmurs, shifting posture, nervous glances, flickering live feeds. Comey tried again, voice strained. You're mischaracterizing the chain of events. Dan leaned in, voice lowering, steady like a fuse burning towards something much bigger. Jim, do you remember what Hillary herself said in 2010? No one has the right to destroy government records. That is the property of the people. That's her quote, not mine, not Trump's. Herron, so unless you're saying the former Secretary of State lied to the country while preaching transparency, I suggest you explain how the hell she became a special category of law, just because her last name came with security detail and a donor list. Dan stepped back, paused, and looked directly at the chair. Because when the law needs to weigh your name before it weighs your actions, it's not law anymore, it's armor. Armor built to deflect justice, not deliver it. The room was quiet again, but not the respectful kind. This was the stunned, loaded silence of realization. Of people connecting dots they'd been told not to notice. Of regular Americans tuning in from their kitchen tables and truck stops, now asking the same quiet question. If that had been me, would I be in jail? The chairwoman scribbled something in ink. A New York Times reporter bit his pen. And just outside the chamber, Fox News rolled out the chyron. Bongino, FBI became a firewall, not a filter. But inside the room, the tension didn't break, because Dan had only just lit the match. The sound that followed Dan Bongino's closing line wasn't applause. It was friction, palpable, loud, human. Shoes shuffled, pens clicked, throats cleared in ways that didn't seem accidental. It was the sound of pressure building, until someone opened a folder and cracked the next layer open. A congressional budget analyst, young and tight collared, stepped to the microphone. His voice was calm, but the words didn't need volume. According to internal audit records and testimony submitted last week, the Federal Bureau of Investigation approved three procurement contracts with Those contracts were cleared in a nine-day period. No recorded hearings, no oversight notations, no formal congressional approval codes. He didn't look up, but everyone else did. The gallery froze. Reporters instinctively leaned forward. The air changed, less courtroom, more crime scene. Comey, seated now, narrowed his eyes and adjusted the mic. His voice was sharp, too sharp. It cut through the silence like it was guilty for being there. The nature of national defense requires flexibility. Sometimes, especially in urgent operational windows, decisions must be accelerated to ensure readiness. These were not standard times. The words were tidy, crisp, camouflaged in duty and security. But the delivery had something else, panic, dressed up as protocol. And that's when Kash Patel stood, not like a man preparing to attack, more like a man laying a scalpel on the table. Carefully, intentionally, he didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. Mr. Comey, in 2010, you were Vice President at Lockheed Martin. You left that position with multi-million dollar equity. You joined the FBI in 2013. And in 2015, under your direct authority, the FBI approved the largest defense contract it has ever signed with Lockheed. The silence was now surgical, no rustling, no blinking, just held breath. Kash stepped closer to the committee table, placed a printed photo face down, then slid it across the surface like a warrant. He flipped it. The photo showed James Comey, smiling, arms crossed, standing beside five executives, all bearing the Lockheed lapel pin, all marked with the date, 2014. Kash didn't gloat. He didn't grandstand. He delivered. One year out of office, back on their boardroom floor, you left government, then rejoined, then directed nearly a billion taxpayer dollars back to your former employer. And after you left again, your speaking fee was five times your government salary. A ripple ran through the press bench. CNN's legal analysts looked like he had bitten glass. Over at the CSPAN camera, someone mouthed, ----. Comey opened his mouth, but Kash wasn't done. This isn't about urgency. This is about trajectory. You didn't bring your experience to government. You brought your investment. And you didn't rexy yourself when it mattered most. You closed the loop. You monetized the badge. Comey's face tightened. Not red, not defensive. Cold. Calculating. But there was no speech this time. No escape hatch of constitutional nuance. Because Kash wasn't swinging wildly. He was dissecting. National defense, he said, stepping back, doesn't mean defending your old friends with our money. And then it happened. Not a gasp. Not applause. The sound of people standing. Phones lifted. Recordings live. Even some Democrats in the back shifted uncomfortably, whispering not into microphones, but into aides' ears. The chair wrapped the gavel once, not to scold, but to reset the room. Too late. Something had shifted, not just in Comey's posture or the public record, but in the minds of everyone watching. Maybe this wasn't a scandal. Maybe it was a system. One so airtight, so polite, so process-oriented, that it could funnel nearly a billion dollars without making a sound. The moment the photo hit the table, something snapped. Not just in the audience, though they stirred, murmured, leaned into their screens with caffeinated urgency, but in Comey himself. For the first time, he slammed his hand on the table. The sound echoed, stark, unapologetic. This is outrageous, he barked, rising half from his chair. This is not a hearing. It's a circus run by amateurs with microphones and vendettas. That man, he pointed toward Dan Bongino, wasn't even in the bureau when these decisions were made. You have no idea what it takes to protect this country from real threats, and you're turning this into political theater. A sharp gasp spread across the room. Phones shot upward like reflexes. C-span scrambled to widen their frame. Dan Bongino didn't flinch. He rose slowly, almost bored, like a man who's seen this tantrum before. And worse, he didn't look at Comey, didn't look at the cameras, didn't even glance at his notes. He just walked forward, then began speaking as if he were standing not in front of Congress, but at a war memorial built from moral erosion. Mr. Comey, I was in the Secret Service, not the circus. And unlike you, I didn't build my resume by moving money through back doors while calling it public duty. The room froze, so did Comey. Dan turned slightly, just enough to make the entire chamber listen without looking away. You wanna talk about defense? Let's talk about the Hoover Building. I've been in there. It's not just concrete. It's rot covered in concrete. It's brutalist design, sure. Cold, windowless, brutal by name and function. But it's more than ugly architecture. It's a world view. One where walls don't let in light, they keep people out. Where transparency isn't just discouraged, it's engineered out of existence. You think people trust the FBI when it looks like a Soviet bunker guarding a truth it forgot how to spell? One engineer once told me, straight face, real quote. That building wasn't built to inspire. It was built to intimidate, and it worked. It intimidated whistleblowers into silence. It intimidated oversight committees into paralysis. And under your tenure, Director, it became not a monument to law, but a mausoleum for integrity. Comey's hands clenched. He leaned forward to interrupt, but Dan didn't break rhythm. We're not here to renovate a building. We're here to dismantle the philosophy that built it. He stepped forward, just once, just enough. Because when your bureau looks like a fortress and acts like a cartel, don't be surprised when the American people stop knocking on the door and start kicking it in. Then came the moment no one had expected. Comey snapped. He slammed both palms on the table, his voice no longer controlled but trembling with anger. You son of a, you think you understand anything about what we faced? You think your little folder and sound bites mean more than decades of classified work than the lives saved? I don't give a damn what your Twitter following says. You weren't there. The chair banged the gavel once, twice, a third time, louder than before. Director Comey, compose yourself. But the tension was already loose in the room. The crowd began buzzing, first murmurs, then scattered whispers, then a low swelling tide of political chaos. Some clapped, some booed, some just stared at the floor, processing what they'd just witnessed. A man once considered the high priest of federal neutrality, losing his cool like a rookie under crossfire. Dan didn't react. He simply turned back toward his seat, nodded slightly to Cash, then paused, hands still resting on the table. We're done treating symbolism like substance, he said. The bureau isn't rotting because its walls are cracking. It's rotting because its soul left the moment truth started needing permission. The chair's voice tried to regain control, but the noise had already taken over. And somewhere in that noise, buried between hashtags and headlines, between old loyalties and new disgust, sat a simple, dangerous question. If the bureau built a wall around truth, who exactly were they trying to keep out? A staffer dropped the note onto the table like it was ticking. One line, no header, no sender, just black ink and arrogance. LM can clear internal on our behalf. JC, that's it. Comey barely glanced at it. His reply came faster than breath. Dripping with the confidence of a man who'd weathered 50 committees and thought this would be the 51st. That could be anyone. JC John Caldwell. Jeff Coats. Jimmy Carter, if you're desperate. He even smiled, that crooked half-dentist, half-devil grin. Like this was still a chess match and he had one night left behind the rook. That's when Kash Patel stood up. And unlike the last dozen questions, he didn't address Comey directly. He spoke to the walls, the wires, the people beyond the cameras who knew damn well how power signs its name. At that time, November 2015, only one person at FBI headquarters had executive clearance to authorize D-level discretionary reallocations. The title was singular. The authority was exclusive. He turned his body slowly toward the room. And the name on that authority wasn't John, Jeff, or Jesus Christ. He paused, not for effect, but to let the air shake. It was James Comey. Comey's lawyer flinched. Someone from the minority wing let out a sharp breath through their nose. The kind you make when your argument just died in your throat. Kash wasn't done. He reached down, no folder, just memory, and fired. Lockheed Martin's internal pricing memo? Logged four hours after that note's timestamp. Four hours, that's not procurement. That's pre-coordination. That's not urgency. That's choreography. He stepped toward the table and tapped the document twice. Not to show dominance, but because the truth had become so tactile, it was now audible. This isn't a conspiracy theory. This isn't innuendo. This is infrastructure. This is how influence gets paved under your tax dollars and resurfaced into executive consulting jobs. He leaned in. We're not chasing shadows. We're following the ink. A congressman threw the next punch. Mr. Comey, did you at any time receive direction, verbal, written, symbolic, or otherwise, from Secretary Clinton's office relating to budgetary or strategic posture? Comey straightened like he was adjusting to thin ice. There is no record of such instructions. Simple, dry, but his tone was starting to rattle at the edges, like a vent about to snap loose. And then the feed cut in. News alerts. Phones buzzed like locusts. A statement from Hillary Clinton's press office blasted across every screen like a pre-scheduled detonation. Director Comey acted with courage to stabilize a nation teetering on institutional collapse. His decisions in 2016 prevented a breakdown of Democratic confidence during a volatile election cycle. We stand by his judgment. The tweet wasn't a defense. It was a confession. Dressed in pearls and perfumed in patriotism, the cameras swung to Dan Bongino before he even stood. And when he did, it wasn't angry. It was surgical. So now we know. The man who claimed he acted alone now has a character witness. Who wasn't in the courtroom, but was behind the curtain? He turned to the chair. What exactly are we witnessing here? A man testifying under oath or a covert joint press conference? Comey didn't flinch, but his lawyer glanced at him like a man counting seconds, not minutes. Dan tapped the paper again, the one with the signature that had detonated the room. Clinton says he acted to save democracy. He says he acted without bias. One of them is lying. And the only reason we can't tell which is because they were playing from the same script. He stepped into the center of the chamber now, shoulders squared. You want to know what that $900 million bought us in 2015? It bought a system where the FBI could be weaponized as an emotional buffer for elite failure, where a crisis of campaign optics became a justification for secret deals, where a director could act without political coordination and still somehow have a press release ready to back him from the very person under federal scrutiny. Dan leaned forward, voice low, sharp. If the FBI was used to save democracy, then what the hell was it saving it from? The people, the process, or just the wrong result? He turned, locked eyes with Comey, no expression, no theatrics. You don't answer to politics anymore. You answer to every mother who raised a son to believe the law was sacred, to every veteran who saluted a flag and didn't know it had a price tag, and to every citizen who followed the rules, only to find out the rules had exemptions for the elite. A Democratic senator rose slightly, mouth parted, as if to defend, but lowered himself again when his aide whispered, don't. No one applauded, not because it wasn't deserved, but because the room had shifted, not in silence, but in alignment. Not one more person would take a bullet for the truth if it wasn't going to be returned with a name, a date, and a signature. They didn't adjourn, not really. The chair tapped the gavel once, technically, officially, but no one moved, no one stood, because no one knew what they were standing for anymore. James Comey sat slouched, not in defeat, but in something worse, exposure. He looked not broken, but processed, like a man who realized too late that the machinery he'd spent years engineering had just chewed his own name out of the manual. The cameras didn't follow him as he left. They turned to the people. CNN's coverage cut to commercial awkwardly. MSNBC pivoted to a panel, four faces, no answers. The New York Times published a cautious headline, tough day for bureaucracy. The Daily Wire went live with Comey gets crushed, but the tweet that mattered, it came from a 16-year-old with 42 followers. Not the day justice was served, just the day we stopped pretending it couldn't be. Outside, the air had shifted, not tense, not electric, something stranger, like a building that had always been too tall finally looked smaller. Protestors began chanting, not angry, but precise. Signs didn't say, lock him up. They said, no more double standards, same law, same sentence. You don't need power to matter. Down the street, a coffee shop TV flickered as a boy sat beside his mother, legs swinging off a stool. He asked the kind of question no adult wants to answer. If the FBI gets it wrong, who fixes it? His mother paused, didn't stall. She glanced at the screen, Kash Patel exiting the building, tie loose, no smile, no wave, no victory dance. The ones who don't bow, she said, even when they're the only ones standing. In the Capitol Rotunda, a single aide handed a classified memo to the oversight chair. DOJ internal inquiry initiated. Scope expanded to Clinton Foundation Communications. On the Senate floor, a Democrat whispered to his colleague, they told us it wouldn't get this far. Yeah, the other replied, they always do. Meanwhile, on Twitter, today wasn't the trial, it was the audit. Comey didn't fall, he was revealed. We don't need a courtroom anymore. We've got the receipts. As Kash Patel stepped into the sunlight, a reporter pushed through the crowd. Mr. Patel, do you still trust the government? He kept walking, not fast, not evasive, just done with questions that missed the point. No answer, just footsteps. And in the background, on a digital billboard looping news highlights, someone paused the footage, a still frame, a signature, and the caption, it wasn't the ink, it was the intent behind the hand. That was the day the story stopped needing narrators because by then, everyone had already made up their minds. You didn't need a verdict, you just had to open your eyes and finally keep them open.