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.
no subject
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.