He shifts his stance, nearly infinitesimally; Sylar's feet draw perfectly even with one another as he settles his hands into his coat pockets. Still heavy with water -- if no longer enough to be dripping -- the fabric swings like a pendulum.

Similar agendas. The enemy of the enemy. Another small smile touches his own lips.

It may have to do, then, for now.

"Then I'll help you," he says.