Sylar had Claire Bennet trapped like a mouse in a cage, and, for once, no one was coming to save her. All was right with the world.

He could have punched through the feeble slats on the closet door and ripped her out of her hiding place like a rag doll. Or better yet, he could have saved his knuckles the abuse and dismantled the shoddy structure with a lazy gesture. But he didn't mind waiting. In fact, he enjoyed it. After all, cats often play with their food.

It was a rush. Claire Bennet was afraid. The immortal cheerleader was afraid that death had found her at last. What death? Why, him, of course. He was the Grim Reaper. He played his fingers over the ridged slats and smiled.

I am become death, he quoted inwardly, and then he backed away slowly. He knew that Claire, huddled inside her laughable fortress, would see his shadow go. Let the games continue.

He wandered the Bennet home quietly for several minutes. Waiting. Listening.

It's so empty. He laughed softly in the dark, shaking his head. Where was Noah, with his glasses and guns and tazers and his endless assault on anything that might make Claire's day less than wonderful? Where was Sandra—silly Sandra, who asked her dog questions and then answered them? Come to think of it, where was the dog? Good lord, had they taken the dog and left their daughter?

Mother and father of the year, he reflected with a brief pang of sympathy. I know the feeling.

In the midst of his contemplation, he heard the tick-tick-tick of her heart.

"What's that sound in your heart?" the Smither woman had asked, right before he had taken the knowledge from her. He had learned since that there were so many different rhythms to the human percussion. Claire's pulse was playing a delightful symphony on his eardrums at this moment, an orchestra of dread. He'd racked up enough experience in the field to know that the sound meant there was a sleek sheen of sweat on her forehead, and her breath was coming out shaky and slow as she strove for absolute silence.

Sylar turned toward her fear and stalked it.

He caught sight of her hazy figure through the doorway. She was heading silently toward the living room door, but she wasn't going to make it. Inaudibly, he fell into stride behind her, stepping in her steps, a macabre game of follow the leader. Let her believe it a little longer. Let her hope.

Oh, Claire-Bear, he thought sardonically, they don't take very good care of you, do they?

And they didn't. He knew that, and suddenly his contempt disappeared—or rather, it transferred. Shame upon them. Really and truly. Shame upon Noah, shame upon Sandra, and shame upon the dog. Sylar thought they might have a son—there was a boy in the family photos, though he had never seen him in person—and so for good measure he wished shame upon the entire Bennet line, barring the sole example that stepped haltingly before him.

Claire was a treasure, a golden goose of sorts. She was precious. And here she was about to be cut open mercilessly in her own home. The Bennets had let the boogeyman get their daughter, let all her nightmares come true. They had actually let him get her all alone, no protection in sight, and now she was about two minutes from getting a crack right across the top of her pretty face.

She won't look like a broken clock at all, will she? A ruined china doll, that's Claire Bennet.

His heavy, dark brows drew together.

Because, curse the Bennets though he might, Sylar was the boogeyman, and he was going to cut her. It was what he did, and he couldn't help it. He wasn't even sorry. How could he be? He was only fulfilling his evolutionary imperative.

They should have done better! he thought bitterly, and he found himself wanting to apologize to Claire, not for himself, but for the others. She should know that she was special, that she deserved better. Mom and Dad—oh, and the other mom and the other dad (suddenly he remembered the extent of Claire's familial dysfunction)—and Brother Bear and Uncle Pete . . . They all should have been standing in a chain around their priceless artifact, ready to repel Sylar at every assault.

Peter's face was like the flick of a switch in Sylar's mind. Suddenly, everything went dark again, and a cold smile turned up his lips. Peter might be even sorrier than Noah when this mess was discovered. The earnest empath was born to feel pain, and clearly there was already a touch of guilt in that relationship. It just wasn't proper to look at your niece like that, even in sidelong glances.

Star-crossed lovers, thought Sylar whimsically. A true Shakespearean tragedy, only this time Juliet doesn't die when she stabs herself. Her heart just keeps on pumping around the dagger.

Twitch-twitch-twitch went the dagger in his mind.

Tick-tick-tick went her heart.

He owned the full set of Shakespeare's works, and he paged through them from time to time. Or at least he had, back when he was dull, dreary Gabriel. A watchmaker desperate for drama, losing himself in the timeless classics. Timeless . . . immortal. Oh, Claire.

Claire's figure was nothing to scoff at, he decided. Studying the view presented to him from behind, he had to admit that Peter's attraction would have been natural if it had not been so unnatural by default.

It's a shame, he thought.

He halted in his footsteps. She was so very near the door. She was so very earnest in her belief that she might reach the door. He could not see her face, but it was all there in the poise of her pretty, pretty body.

It's just such . . .

He raised his arm. Pointed. He brought his finger level with her head.

. . . a goddamn—

"Shame," he breathed unintentionally.

Claire spun toward him immediately, and the shock of her movement caused his aim to falter. He blinked when she raised her arm, and because it was all so unexpected, because he was accustomed to his victims hiding under tables rather than turning them, he took a nanosecond too long to study what she was holding in the dark.

When she swung out boldly, meaning to bury the blade in his flesh, he realized it was a large kitchen knife. When the tip of it grazed his abdomen, cutting through the fabric of his shirt and a couple layers of skin like butter, he knew it was deadly—and, surprise! So was Claire.

Sylar screamed at the unexpected streak of pain, pulling in his arm instinctively to protect his midsection, as many hunted animals curl upon themselves to shield their vulnerable bellies. Pressing his lips tight in anger and discomfort, he opened his fingers, elbow against his navel, and took the knife from her with a single telekinetic pull.

The knife cart-wheeled through the air over his head, and he heard it lodge itself in something, probably the wall. But he did not follow it with his eyes, because his attention was all for Claire. She stepped closer to him, and he could see her better now: blond hair wildly askew about her face and shoulders, face flushed, eyes flashing, teeth bared. At this last detail, he could not help baring his teeth, too. They glared at each other, breathing roughly.

"How dare you," he whispered. "How dare you. Don't you know--?"

Then, she did something that stunned him. She approached him, and while there was a strong element of caution in her footfalls, there was little hesitation. What in God's name did she mean to do? Kill him with her bare hands? He might have laughed if he had not been so curious.

When she reached him, he watched as she reached down, jerking with both hands at the arm he still kept bent over his abdomen. He reached out his other hand to catch her wrists, confused but noncompliant. It wouldn't do to underestimate her again—his last brush with death still stung. They fought each other for a few moments, the only sounds in the room their mutual panting and the rustling of their combating limbs.

"What are you doing?" he ground out, trying to shove her off with his shoulder. She clung to his forearm, unwilling to be repelled so easily.

"I know I cut you," she answered, and there was a frantic quality to her voice that he found a little disturbing. "I know I made you bleed. Move you arm—move you arm, you son of a bitch, I want to see if you're dying!"

"Hey!"

Leaving her hands to continue their hurried fumbling, Sylar reached up with his free arm and gripped her neck. His fingertips dug into her jaw line beneath her ears. With a shove, he forced her away, almost dropping her as he shifted her weight back past her center of balance. Claire sucked a breath in through her teeth and reached up, grabbing his wrist to steady herself. Sylar shook her a little to keep her from regaining a sure footing.

He took the opportunity to stare down at her, and he was somehow agitated by what he saw. A hint of the determined fighter was still there, but she seemed to have morphed into a madwoman during the moments they wrestled over his injury. The color was high in her cheeks, her lips were still drawn back from her teeth, and he realized that she was panting too hard, her chest heaving. She seemed close to hyperventilating.

"Hey," he said again, with less indignation. He finally took his other arm away, baring the cut across the front of his shirt, and he tugged telekinetically at her knees. In a second, she was in the air, on her back, and she cried out. Slowly, slipping the hand he held at her throat around to the back of her head, he knelt, lowering her to the carpet.

When she was resting on the floor, he prised her fingers from around his wrist. Suddenly, as if coming back to herself, she clawed at him again. This time he countered it deftly, splaying his fingers to immobilize her.

"Don't bother," he said. "I hate to add yet another disappointment to your life, but you failed to disembowel me. Obviously."

He stood, keeping her in place with the firm control of his mind, and glanced at the ceiling. The overhead chandelier came on, and he located the knife jutting from the wall just over a round mirror. He went to it and tugged it loose, then stood before his reflection and lifted his shirt to study the red line she'd inflicted. It had bled, but he could see that it was nothing really significant, a superficial cut.

"Just a scratch," he said, his voice almost bored. He turned and walked back to her, swinging the knife at his side. She followed it with her eyes. "Hardly worth mentioning."

Holding up the knife, he touched the tip of the blade to display its lack of blood. He shrugged and lifted one eyebrow.

"I'm sorry."

Claire looked bitterly disappointed. It seemed to outweigh her fear, and as he looked down at her, Sylar wasn't sure how he felt about that. There she was, a damsel in distress, fairytale heroine caught alone with all her treasures in her basket. Sylar's eyes narrowed. Was he the wolf or the woodsman?

He knelt beside her again, and lifted one finger before her face. Fear surfaced at the telltale motion, tightening the tendons in her neck, and that gratified him. He wanted to cut her.

Tilting his head, he used his finger to sweep the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears. He wanted to save her.

"What were you going to say?" Claire's voice came out tiny and strained.

"Hm?"

"What were you going to say—earlier—you started to say . . ." Her breath was still unsteady, her words quick and jumbled.

"Sssshhh—calm down," he commanded with a mock soothing note. "Calm down, and then we'll talk. After all, I think we've got time—I've got a feeling Daddy won't be home any time soon. These little business excursions always roll around at the most inconvenient times, don't they?"

Her lips trembled, but her breathing began to stabilize.

"In . . . and out . . . that's right," he said softly. "Claire-bear. . ."

"Don't call me that!" she snapped. Her voice was a bit stronger, more controlled.

Sylar laughed, and he reached out to touch her hair again.

"Why, Claire? Are you mad at him? I know I would be. Just imagine . . ."

Placing his palm flat on the floor to her side, he leaned over her, bringing his face very close. Her features tightened, but she met his gaze.

"Do you really want to hear what I almost said, Claire?" he asked. She blinked. "I was going to say—Don't you know that I deserve you?"

He paused to let it sink it. With an expression that was part disgust, part disdain, Claire scoffed.

"What?" she asked.

"They left you all alone, Claire," he said, and for a second his face was open, naked, his dismay evident. "How can you make yourself keep believing that they love you?"

Claire's lips parted, and he thought there was a touch of hurt in the offended look she gave him.

"I'm the one who never gives up," he continued. "All my efforts, my work—where are they to stop me? Don't you think, Claire, that after all this time, all this running . . . Don't you think they started to wonder if you were worth it, after all? You've uprooted your family, you'd spell ruin for your biological father if he acknowledged you publically, God only knows where your real mother is and what she may be doing, and Pete—" Here he flicked his eyes up and down her body for show. "Well, I think you got to be just a little too much for Pete. They don't understand, Claire. They can't see how special you really are."

There was wetness in her eyes, and he searched them with his own, bringing himself even closer. His face was intense, almost urgent.

"You see, don't you?" he asked, cupping her cheek. "You're just a thorn in their side. But to me . . . to me, you're an aspiration."

They each understood simultaneously that he worshipped her, that Gabriel "Sylar" Gray, watchmaker turned serial killer, worshipped the one-time cheerleader Claire Bennet. Her eyes widened, and he flushed slightly, whether from embarrassment or from the mere impact of such a realization, neither knew.

He glanced at her mouth, her soft, pink lips, and for an instant she felt his warm breath on them. Then, he shifted and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Still covering her, he looked up, out into the room, feeling her warmth, her closeness. He would have liked to kiss her a thousand more times, to touch her, embrace her. An empathy with Peter occurred, along with an even greater burst of contempt.

Sylar looked inside of himself.

"They should have taken care of you," he stated in a low, unhappy voice that sent a chill down the center of her back. "You were worth so much more."

Pushing away from the floor, he lifted himself up. Stood. He gazed down on her once more with an induced iciness, his black irises containing all the mercy of a shark's. Again, he heard the rapid tempo of her heart, that tick-tick-tick. It beat in his ears like the tribal drums before a sacrifice.

"I wish I could have been the woodsman, Claire," he said, lifting his hand to level it on the spot he had just kissed so tenderly. "But we both know what I am."

Claire shut her eyes tightly, Sylar's mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste, and then the air was alive with the shrieks of his goddess.