Cautiously, he pushes himself to his knees, squinting against the blinding rush of air.

There's a gaping hole in the Observation Window. It's half plugged by debris, broken chairs and tables and bottles.

(And at least two bodies.)

The lights slam back on and color everything a bright, washed-out green before dimming again. Sylar trails his fingertips over the floor, brushing aside a few bits of glass.

"It shouldn't have been able to do that." Almost desperate. "I know."

He doesn't.