One of the patterns suddenly spikes high in counterpoint to the other, nearly deafening him. Sylar stifles a wince and turns his face away.

A second later, though, his gaze slides back toward her, the rest of him remaining perfectly motionless. Dryly, he answers, "I didn't think to expect otherwise."

Moving no faster than absolutely necessary, he begins to tug up the hem of his black hooded sweatshirt. At the same time, as he closes his eyes --

This wince, he can't stifle.

The gash, and the amount of accompanying blood, abruptly look much worse than before as the telekinesis relaxes.