Silently, Sylar steps over Isaac's foot and circles around to his side. He glances to his right at the canvases next to them, almost lifts a hand to touch the drying paint.

They all show the same thing, from different angles: Isaac with the top of his head sheared off, the skull hollowed out like a shell.

Below him, he can hear the thready, fading unevenness in the painter's heartbeat.

"Neither can you," he says at last, softly, as he turns back. Each movement careful and meticulous, Sylar laces his fingers together and crouches beside him.