Boom. Eyes wide, Sylar's nostrils flare, as if trying to scent it when another star bursts and rattles the broken window.

But this -- he doesn't need to. It's like skidding down a slope of ice, only to have your foot catch on an unexpected hold.

"I already know," he breathes, in faint surprise. "I saw it." He rests one hand against the side of his thigh, tightening his fingers into the cloth, trying to match physical to mental.

"And it wasn't real."

Not false. Not really. But visions aren't the same as reality; there's a certain, relieving lack of ambiguity to that.

It is, quite suddenly, the only clear thing he has, and Sylar will not let himself lose it.