To call it "seeing" is out of little more than convenience: it's more like patterns falling into place, order suddenly and sharply becoming clear, all of it alight in all the ways it should or should not be. It's sound -- or something like it -- accompanying it, fine-tuning the differences.

That's how it works.

How it has never worked is as strongly and patently visual as this, more like triggering Isaac's gift on a blank canvas than anything else. Sylar can hear and see the horrifying wrongness ticking away beneath her, far louder than he could before, but he sees it, too, for just a split-second.

He stumbles back a step, gasping.