He's groping sightlessly at nothing, fighting to breathe; the air rips into his lungs every time he tries. It hurts, everywhere, and it's like the haze has migrated to his ears: he knows he's hearing something, but whatever it is is garbled and indistinct.

When Sylar tries to rub at his eyes, his hands don't move very far, either. Something's pinned them back.

Gulping in another breath, he squints up at Simon, working to piece the features together. "Dr. Tam?" he croaks at last.