But before Isaac can reach it, the gun abruptly skids across the table, like someone's yanked it along on strings, and clatters to the ground on the opposite side of the room.

Nobody's touched it.

Sylar lowers his hand and snaps, as if scolding a child, "Now, now."

He's wasted enough time. A precise second ticks by before Sylar lifts his hand again and taps two fingers against nothing, the gesture sharp and precise.