It's become difficult to remember. There is fog, always that damned fog, and nearly everything fractures apart like glass when he does manage to find it.

Some things, though, are more resilient.

Sylar jerks as if stung, stumbling backward a step with his eyes wide. Then, almost instantaneously, he catches himself on a chair back, and his eyes darken as he bares his teeth.

"Who told you that?" he snarls.

Flicker; tick go the lights.