The confusion shifts, shuttering back to a glare. His wrists hurt; unthinking, Sylar circles his left one with his right hand, massaging it, feeling out the bones and the empty space where a watch should be.

(If it was ever there at all.)

"I don't. Know," he tells her as he fixes her with a look. Each word is heavy and weighted in the back of his throat; he ignores the milkshake.