Think of a wounded dog backed into a corner. Think of how it will still bare its teeth, snapping, as its hackles go up.

The strings twist up over Sylar's ankles like vines, and Sylar, eyes lit by a dark, crazed defiance even as he tries to scramble away, growls, "Prove it. Do it."

The words echo off of the walls, as if he's in an empty, tiled room.

I've been here before, he realizes, as more strings rake up to circle his wrists.