Whatever he could think to say dies in his throat.

Sylar doesn't move -- can't move, wouldn't be able to move even if the restraints weren't tightening to the point that his fingertips burn with pins and needles.

(It's the back of his neck that hurts now, a sting widening to an ache widening to true pain that draws his breath up short.)

If the other woman was a figment then (everything) this must be too -- he shuts his eyes and yanks his head away from her touch, slamming it against the floor with a muted crack.

And he still can't speak.