"That was your job," he hisses.

The floor's starting to tilt under his hands and knees. Blood wells up where his fingers touch it, spiderwebbed cracks spreading across the wood.

FORGIVE ME, they spell.

"I." Sylar swallows, fighting it as the thick, cottony haze starts settling over his thoughts again. "He painted you, too. Drew you. I remember that. Even he knew you were supposed to stop me, but you couldn't do it."

And he rocks upright, off of his hands.

"Coward."