Frowning, he looks down to where the orderly's pointing. There's nothing at first; then, red spatters in tiny, irregular circles on his shirt.

He touches his head again, and something damp sticks to his hair.

Oh, thinks Sylar with a strange detachment as his pulse quickens. That's why it's so warm.

And then, without warning, he's coughing: violent, chest-wracking heaves that send up more blood onto the sheets, lodging something thick and spongy in the back of his throat that won't come free no matter how hard his body tries to expel it. His grip loosens as he rocks forward, bent double.

The light sputters and settles into a rattling hiss.