He leans his head back, suddenly weary, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Please tell her I'm sorry," he says in a monotone. "If you see her."
The sheets feel rough under his fingers, like canvas; Sylar begins to smooth them out in small, convulsive movements, interrupted every so often when he digs his fingers into them, as if trying to anchor, or tear, or possibly both.
With each movement, they rustle.
It doesn't stop when he does, and soon he's gone motionless, breath held, listening harder.
no subject
He leans his head back, suddenly weary, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Please tell her I'm sorry," he says in a monotone. "If you see her."
The sheets feel rough under his fingers, like canvas; Sylar begins to smooth them out in small, convulsive movements, interrupted every so often when he digs his fingers into them, as if trying to anchor, or tear, or possibly both.
With each movement, they rustle.
It doesn't stop when he does, and soon he's gone motionless, breath held, listening harder.