She knew where he was, could feel his vile breathing pollute the air, even if she was three floors underneath his apartment. His heartbeat, with each pump in his chest filling her with hatred and rage, was as clear to her as if she were listening to it through a headset. Her silver eyes, though blind in some other world, led her through the darkness to his door, but he would be expecting that. She'd been watching him for some time now. One wrong move, and she could blow the entire operation. She turned to a window in the hallway, opening it as silently as her prowess could manage, and she slipped out onto the fire escape. She found his window too easily, and, with great caution, she began to slide it open. Why was it not locked? Had he become that careless? No, there was no way. Slowly she opened the window, her shadow reflecting into the dark room from the moonlight, and crept inside without a moment's hesitation. He would be waiting for her, she was certain.

She drew her blades, pressing them to her sides to not cause an optical while maneuvering through the apartment. The first room was easy to escape, but one in particular held her victim. She could hear his careful breathing, his heart beat thumbing so calmly, yet as loud as neon. He could not hide from her. She silently sprinted to the door which he was hiding behind. The closer she got to the door, the louder his heart beat became, the brighter the room got, and now, she could even smell him (he had a pleasant mixture of sweat and coffee, and a hint of shaving cream about him, and her nostrils flared with delight). As quiet as the grave, she turned the handle . . . And then she charged in, ready for battle.

But he was not.

She could not see him, only the color that he gave off, which shone like a bright, red, neon light. She could hear his relaxed breathing, the steady rhythm of his heart beat, the slight movement of sheets being ruffled between his legs. The movement was heavy, however not when he moved his arms and torso, which gave her the impression of how under dressed he was. He turned over, his breathing now louder, and then he moved no longer. Was this the depiction of a man ready to face a fight? It couldn't be. She was certain he had known about her, but all this evidence led to either a very careless killer or an oblivious one. Or an extremely talented one, for she knew he could not be truly sleeping at a time like this. But he was. She could hear his eyelids twitching, indication that he was lost in another world. A world of dreams.

However, this would not catch her off guard. If he was truly asleep, this would only give her an advantage at finally taking him out. She was suddenly glad to have little sight, afraid seeing him innocently sleeping would only cause her to hesitate, and that was something she could not afford to do now. However harmless he appeared, she knew the truth. This man was a cold blooded killer. She had heard the screams of his victims, and the stories of the true innocents that he had murdered before that, and he would have killed her as well, had a stranger not intervened and saved her life.

She remembered the stranger's name. How could she not? Wandering through this terror alone, this blackened chaos of screams and death hidden from her, someone screaming for her to escape, another polluting her mind with secrets and desires she couldn't recognize, taunting her . . .

And then he came for her. For the first time in her life, there had been color, some glimpse of an existence outside of her own darkness. It wasn't that she had brought down her walls in a plea for help, someone else had invaded them, but she couldn't grasp it straight away. A piercing, unforgettable red light shined through her soul. It captivated her, made her not feel so afraid. But it had been a deception. She fell, and he had reached for her . . . but someone else had caught her. When gravity took it's toll and she felt as if the red light would consume her completely, it had vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, fading into the all-too-familiar blackness.

And then there was a new light. It was warm and bright, and at first she couldn't really comprehend just what it was that surrounded her. It was like all her emotions became alive in one instance, pouring out of her in this ray of color, or whatever she could call it. She didn't know where she was, but for some reason, for some explainable cause . . . she felt safe. She felt free.

"My name is Peter." he said with exhausted gesture. Had they flown to the roof, or wherever they were; she thought it was probably a roof from the amount of air in her lungs and the distant noises that seemed to travel underneath her for miles? "I'm like you," he added. She didn't say anything in return. She heard his voice, and it all gathered from there. She could see him. Not in the form of light like back at the central park. She could actually see him. There was a wave of vibrant, faded colors around him, like his aura, or something. She was so confused. This had never happened to her before. It had been years since she was able to see. Years since . . .

She stared at him, tears trickling down her face. She reached for him, her fingers brushing over his cheeks. He didn't move, and she was glad; everything else was still hiding from her, in the black surrounding them, she could see only him. She let out a mix between a whimper and an excited gasp. Her other hand took his, and though he was confused by this woman's fascination of him, he did not protest. He had just saved her life, after all.

Her gaze found his. She peered into his eyes, swimming in the light, hazel color of his irises. Her fingers brushed against the skin around his eyes. She breathed out, letting an astonished laugh escape with it. "I . . . I can see you." More tears flowed down the soft skin of her cheeks. "I can see you!" she repeated, and she said it once more, but silently, just above a whisper.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked. She watched his lips move as he talked, something she had not been able to do in years. It distracted her from not taking in his words fully.

Despite this stranger saving her life, from whatever it was, and the things she was experiencing at that very moment, there was something else that began to dig away at her. She became afraid, even wrapped in the light of this man, her savior. She backed away from him, her arms crossed over her chest and her lips started to tremble. Was this it? Something had happened to her, and now she could see him standing in front of her, but only him. The rest of the world remained black. So how long would this last. She was the little frightened girl all over again, waking up one morning, not able to open her eyes or escape the darkness around her.

"No," she breathed finally. "No, I'm not alright." She took a step forward, but she did not reach for him. She kept her arms tight against her chest. "I can see you. Why? Why can I see you? Why am I still blind to everything else?" Then she was throwing random questions everywhere. "Who are you" and "What happened to me?" and then, "What do you mean, you're like me?"

And Peter told her everything. He told her about Specials, and her abilities, explained how it was possible, the things that had happened to her. She regretted it, all of it. She wanted him to take her powers away. Back then, it wasn't a gift, it wasn't a blessing from God that she could not longer see, that her abilities allowed her to experience the world in new light, and then to have her true light taken from her. It was a curse. But Peter was patient with her. It took her a few weeks, but she had eventually gotten use to the thought that she might never see anyone else in this world except him. Only seeing him . . . of course, that was not something she never regretted. She was thankful for Peter, beyond belief. He was one of those rarities in the world, a very good friend.

And that was when she discovered the other part of being a Special. Where there were people who used their powers to save others, there were those who strive to use their powers to control, and manipulate people. Or to kill altogether. Peter told her about the night he saved her life. But she had been so happy to physically see him, to finally have someone who she could trust, someone like her; he couldn't bring himself to tell her about him. She hadn't seen him, after all. She'd seen a fragment of who he was through color, but she never knew what it was Peter had saved her from.

And then her neighbor, a boy named Ethan she had come to care for, had suddenly appeared dead in their shared apartment building months later. She could see everything. The deep red against the walls, splattered there like a reckless child wanting to redecorate the walls of his room, his broken, soulless body lying limp just near the stairs, his eyes black as a doll, staring up at her as if it would steal her own soul. The top of his head was missing, and his brain. And the SMELL. Never had she experienced such a smell before . . . Well, she had, actually. The night Peter had saved her. Her scream caught the attention of her sleeping neighbors, and soon the police crowded the place. But, all she wanted was to see Peter's face again. It was an unexpected thing to get her call in the middle of the night, but the moment he did, he was on his way. He took her away from the police, from the scene of death so vivid and fresh in her mind, in the blackness that surrounded her day and night. Except Peter. When she saw him, her whole world came together again.

That was when he told her about Sylar. He told her everything, like he had meant to the night he'd saved her life. He told her about all the people he had killed, the loved ones he'd hurt, the friends he'd deceived, all in a battle to become more powerful. But, she wasn't angry with him like he was expecting. She understood that he only wanted to protect her, and she told him this was so, though he could not believe her.

Peter made her promise that she would not go after him. That she would move away, forget him, forget Sylar, and start a new life. For all the kindness Peter had shown her, for everything he'd done to protect her, she would heed his promise.

But it was a promise she could not keep.

How many more lives would he take? What if he planned to kill everyone? She could not let that happen. She could not let anyone else close to her get hurt. So she found out everything she could. She followed his reports. She shadowed his murders hoping that somewhere along the line, they would cross paths again.

And she had. He was back to where it had started., where her world turned upside-down and inside-out. Possibly because he knew she was following him. If he knew, so be it. So could not wait another day.

She could not wait another second. She took a silent breath, silent even to her ears, and braced the blades held at her sides. She did not cry out, did not press the blades against his throat to wake him for a chance to say something catchy. Her eyes followed the rhythm of his heart. She could see the organ through his light; it shined brighter and thumped ever second in unison with each beat. And that is where she plunged each of her blades.

He awoke with an enervated scream, his arms instantly attaching themselves her in attempt to throw her off him, but the surprise rendered him weak. At that moment, she wished for sight if only to see the terror in his eyes. She jumped on top of him and withdrew both her blades. Then she stabbed them into him again and listened as blood spat from his lips. She was so tempted to repeat this action, over and over until he was choking on his own blood, but then who would she be compared to him? No, she could not become the monster. A final time she withdrew her blades and slit his throat to silence him once and for all. He did not deserve this quick death, but she would not allow him to suffer. She was the better person.

He became still.

She sat there atop his chest, his body limb beneath her. She breathed heavily with adrenaline, a rush of excitement and accomplishment flowing through her in sync. Sylar's blood coated her fingers, and she could feel where some had splattered onto her face. It was warm at first, and then cold as the night. She did not move until she could no longer hear the beating of his heart. The color of his aura faded to nothing, giving her full awareness of his death. She sighed, holding in the urge to start laughing in triumph. She sat up, wiping each of her blades on his bare chest, and then sheathed them to her hip. She wiped the blood from her hands on her sides, the metallic liquid cooling her skin, reassuring her she'd done the job. As she slipped off him, she bent down toward him, her breath reflecting off his face, and she whispered, "Goodnight, Sylar." Her body relaxed as she found her feet. She sighed and breathed in the air before walking out of the room. Her hand nearly found the doorknob when she heard a low thump.

Another followed the first, and then another. She froze, uncertain and afraid. The blood was still cool on her skin, he had to have been dead. He was dead, but then she head his breathing also and what seemed as paper folding together. Skin mending, sheets rattling in the silence. She could not turn fast enough. She let out a scream as some unknown force flung her into the wall and held her there. She could not move, as if she'd been instantly glued to the spot. Her silver eyes reflected with fear at the bold, bright red light in front of her. She could make out his figure in different shades, his arm raised toward her, holding her to the wall like he was Darth Vader. Her first scream would be her last. She would not show him fear.

His lips stretched into a smirk, his voice cracked with a chuckle. "I knew I'd see you again." he said, his voice loud in her ears, strong and powerful as the force that held her. "Peter wouldn't have save you for nothing. I could tell from the moment he carried you away that you'd become a real pain in my ass." His color grew bright as he drew near. She could even depict parts of his face in the balance of reds.

"At least now I know. You won't make it out so easy next time." Something grew tight around her neck, choking back her words, but left her enough room to breath. He would not kill her so easily.

"Oh, there won't be a next time." he breathed. He didn't say anything else. Their breaths hung in the silence, her heart racing with anxiety. And then, there came a searing pain in her head. She wanted to scream, to kick at the air, to cry, but she could not. She felt blood trickle down the side of her face as the incision in the forehead grew deeper. This is what he does. He was going to kill her and steal her power, like Peter said. But she had leverage. Struggling against his invisible grasp on her neck, she choked out a small laugh.

"It's almost tempting . . . To let you . . . Kill me." she said. Sylar stopped, giving her more cause to continue. "To keep quiet . . . And let you suffer . . . The consequences of my abilities," she choked.

"I've had plenty of consequences of my own to deal with. What could be so agonizing about keen senses?" Sylar indulged her, loosening his grip on her throat.

She took in as much breath as she could. "I take it, you like seeing the world around you. You enjoy the faces of terror . . . from the people you kill." Sylar didn't answer, but she went on anyway. "If you steal my abilities, they'll steal your sight." she finally breathed, and let out a small cough. Sylar saw the glimmer in her eyes, the silver reflecting off the light of the moon. "A blind killer . . . Isn't much of a killer. You'd be vulnerable. It wouldn't take a grade schooler to take you down."

Sylar let her drop to her face. He was angry, yet curious. As she coughed her lungs out to breath, he stood over her, grabbing her by the hair to make her face him. She made no plea, only stood there, waiting. "And, I'm supposed to believe that shit? You made it up hear, in the dark, without making a noise, and manage to kill me once even though you're blind as a bat?"

"I've had these abilities for years. Only recently I've been able to see shapes. You . . . For example." She met his gaze, the form of his face outlined in a light, pinkish red. His eyes were darker, a mere white light in the center of his irises. If she'd had the time to take them in fully, they would have been beautiful. "I see your face . . . In an outline of colors. Your heart throbs in a repeated wave of red." She smirked. "Too bad it didn't stay dead."

She let out a low groan as Sylar lifted her by her hair, causing her to stand on her feet. He slammed her head against the wall, taking one of her own blades from its sheath, and pressed it against her throat. She let out a smooth breath. "Nice toys." Sylar smiled. He glanced at her body, seeing the smears of his blood on her sides. "Were you just going to parade through the night wearing my blood on your skin? Not a very smart move."

"I can move unseen if I want. No one has caught me yet." She could hear him smirk, and quickly added, "It would have been something to celebrate. Knowing I put you back in the dark hole that you crawled out of, if only for a moment."

"And you think not taking your abilities saves you from me putting you in your own?"

"I was ready to die the moment I stepped foot in this apartment," she scowled. She stood as straight as his hold on her hair would let her. "If you're going to kill me, do it."

Sylar did not hesitate. Again, he threw her against the wall, bringing her down to her knees. Again, his grasp tightened around her hair, and he slammed his knee into her stomach. She fell, coughing for air, blood spilling from her lips. His color flickered when she looked up at him, but the force of his foot met her chest, knocking her on her back. She groaned, and cried out in pain, but she did not scream or cry, no matter how much she wanted to. She rolled over on her side and Sylar took a moment to breath, the adrenaline getting the better of him. He smiled as she struggled to sit up. "Where's the fun in just killing you? You've worked so hard to get here. It's only fair that I return the favor!" He kicked her again, nearly lifting her from the floor, and she crashed back down on her back. The moment she met the wood floor, he lifted her again, but with his mind, and threw her across the room to the opposite wall. The collision left a crater in the wall, pieces of the ceiling fell from the rupture of parting wood and installation. She fell comfortably on the bed, but she did not move.

Pain filled every inch of her body. The blood left by her stabbing Sylar earlier now coated her skin as she lay in his bed, unmoving. It was cold, and the metallic smell engrossed her nostrils, but still she would not even turn her head. She could not see his color as he approached her. It flickered and faded like a light bulb, but she could still hear him. She felt his hands on her hips, the sudden sensation tingling her entire body. He pulled her to the edge of the bed and lifted her upright by the front of her top, the force of it breaking one of her shoulder straps. He saw her eyes glancing around and above him, as if searching for him. She felt his breath on her face. He chuckled.

"Can't you see me?"

She did not answer. She held her lips shut, her eyes falling on his face where she thought his line of sight might be. The silver in her irises caught Sylar's gaze, and for a moment, he hesitated. There was no fear in them, no pain. She was searching for him, like she had suddenly forgotten her purpose. She was fully conscious of her previous intentions, of course. She was simply awaiting her death. A death he was tentative to offer her.

She heard his lips stretch, a small amount of breath leave his nostrils. "You know, if this was any other situation," he drew closer to her. She flinched when she felt his lips on her ear. "I'd fuck you in a heart beat." He laughed at how quickly her body tensed. He drew back, seeing the hatred in her wandering eyes.

"I'd rather gargle acid after chewing on a razor blade."

"Ouch." Sylar laughed.

She breathed heavily, her expression grew thick with intimidation. "What are you waiting for, then? You're a psychopath, murderer. You can try whatever your sick, corrupted mind can think of. But, I swear to God, unless your going to kill me - you touch me, and I'll make you wish you'd stayed dead."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It's a promise." she growled.

"Well," Sylar released his hold on her shirt, nearly pushing her back. She barely stood on her own, but just for a moment, a glimmer of hope shone in her eyes. Was he really just going to let her go? Sylar sighed. "Fortunately for you, this psychopath doesn't get anything out of rape," he informed her. Relief struck her at hearing this, but it did not show in her face. "Unfortunately," he added, catching her by surprise. He got closer to her, her forehead brushed against his chin. She felt him lift his arm, but not toward her. Silently, he breathed, "I'm still a killer."

In an instant, the blade he'd left lying on the floor flung itself into his grasp and he pierced it into her stomach. She let out a long, loud cry. Her mouth hung open in pain and surprise, her eyes wide and terrified. Unconsciously, she grabbed a hold of his shoulder, weakly clawing down his arm as she lost her balance. He caught her just as she fell backwards and slowly guided her down to the bed. He withdrew her blade from her body, and held it in his grasp, contemplating stabbing her again. He brushed his hand out from under her, just briefly brushing it behind her shoulder.

He stopped.

The strap was broken, giving him access to her skin, but there was something just behind her shoulder that caused him hesitation. He lifted her enough so that he could see, ignoring her low groans of pain, and he brushed his fingers along a neat pattern engraved just above her shoulder blade. A pattern he knew well. Now it was merely an inked scar, but he could see it perfectly, even in the dark. He followed the circle with his thump, his index finger brushing the L-shape in its center, representing a specific time. 3 o'clock a.m. Sylar had to see it fully to believe it, but even in the moonlight, the tattoo was unmistakable. His heart thumped heavily and sank to his belly.

Sylar let the dagger fall from his hand. He stared into her face, his gaze taking in ever feature, every wrinkle, every small pore. The tiny mole beside her nose, and another above her right eyebrow. His brows furrowed in confusion, his eyes saturated in fear and disbelief and denial. His voice cracked in his throat. She heard it, just barely. She thought maybe he was laughing at her, but she couldn't be certain. She was so weak and disoriented.

Sylar brushed the short blonde bangs out of her face. Sweat covered her forehead, and small tears trickled down her cheeks. He sighed, heavy and saddening. "Dani?" he breathed, his tone hoarse and strange. Her eyes found his, even as blind as she was. As she tried to breath, blood caught in her throat and she coughed vigorously. She trembled, wheezing for air, struggling to stay alive. The pain in her body was proving too much. Sylar wrapped his hand under her head, his other bracing her back, forcing her to sit up. He climbed on the bed, ignoring the blood that covered the sheets, and sat her in his lap. The more she moved, the fiercer her coughs became, the more blood spewed from her lips. "No, no, no. Dani, stay with me, please. I'm sorry."

Sylar suddenly forgot everything around him: how this had all began, her trying to kill him. The evil in his heart dispersed, replaced by a horror he had never felt. His world turned up-side-down in a heartbeat. His mind could hold not a single thought, no matter how hard he tried to focus. Something strange filled his lungs with a cold bitterness.

Staring down at her face, everything became so familiar then. How could he not have recognized her from the start? Her hair was so different, and her eyes. . .they were beautiful, even if they were no longer blue as he remembered, but it was still her. Daniela Fairchild.

"I'm so sorry." Sylar took in a heavy breath. "Why couldn't I tell it was you?"

Faintly, Dani took a breath to speak. It took her a moment, even after she'd spewed out the blood in her throat. "Who . . .who. . ." was all she could manage.

"Dani . . ." Sylar wiped the blood from her lips. A tear rolled down his face, falling on her cheek. "Its. . .Gabriel. Gabriel Gray." His voice was a little over a whisper. "Don't you remember?"

Slowly, Sylar took her hand and placed it on his shoulder. Her fingers brushed his skin, light and weak. At fist, she thought nothing of it. She didn't understand his words, or rather, she couldn't believe them. And then she felt something familiar. A carving in his skin. As her fingers traced the blatant circle etched in the same place on her body, her eyes grew wide with realization. His words hit her hard, but not pleasantly. More tears filled her eyes, pouring down her cheeks where blood trails flowed down to her chest. She weakly shook her head, a whimper escaped her mouth.

"No," she muttered. Sylar narrowed his eyes. His lips trembled, suddenly regretting revealing to her a past neither of them could look on with joy. Pain filled his heart. "Gabe. . .Gabriel," Dani's voice was near nonexistent. Sylar bent his face closer to hers to try and hear her better, but her words only pained him further. She whispered, her eyes barely open, "is dead. You. . .will never-" She grew silent for a long time.

Sylar held his breath. He refused to look in her eyes, to see her face again even for a second. He did not want to pear at a lifeless face, but his aching heart compelled him. Silver caught his welling gaze, but the shine was gone. Her lips slightly parted, but no breath fell on his face. The arm that hung on his shoulder slid loosely to her side. Her head hung limp, motionless.

Dani was dead. And he had killed her.

|Simpler Times|

"When?" she asked eagerly, the shine in her blue eyes catching him off guard. They'd always been so beautiful, but only reflected a fraction of her true beauty. The part of her he loved.

"Soon. I promise." He smiled, his fingers lightly brushing her cheek, which flushed a delicate pink. "Before you leave for London."

"Why not now?" She stepped forward, her hands pressing against his chest, her face mere inches from his. "We don't need a professional. We could do it together. Something simple." She thought for a moment. "What time is it?"

He looked down at his watch. It was a brand new model: a black, newly waterproof, class-of-the-year Sylar. He was very proud of it. "Nearly three in the morning." he answered, adding a concerning, "Why?"

"Just tell me when it strikes three."

He did, and for the first time in an impatient, agonizing wait, they kissed for the first time. Though she cried in fear it would be their last, it went on for as long as they could allow.

When she finally left a week later, disappearing into the crowd of passersby in the airport, his hand found the inked scar behind his shoulder: a perfect circle surrounding an L-shaped pattern. He didn't know when he would see her next, but he knew that when his fingers traced the tattoo, she'd be doing the same, and in that moment they would find each other again.