The dampness of his hair and clothes itches; Sylar, without thinking, scrapes three curled fingers underneath the fringe plastered to his forehead, brushing it aside.

He doesn't look away, either.

Step. Step. They're carefully measured, exacting as the beat of a heart, and carry him down the front stairs. His hand reaches for the rail again and veers away a second later.

(It isn't merely the agent and his daughter who are special here. Or so it seems.)

The wary, searching scrutiny stays through the entire walk across the street, and intensifies when he pauses several yards away, like an animal instinctively balking at an unknown sight.