There's a curious flicker to Sylar's expression at the name Frank: interest, perhaps faint surprise.

It's just that, however; no more than a flicker.

"You wouldn't know what I think you are," he tells her, as calm as a teacher correcting a slow student. Sylar cants his head. "And what he'd tell you about me, I doubt you'd believe."

A considering pause, as his focus sharpens anew.

"Or would you," he murmurs.