It was four in the morning. Who on earth calls people at four in the morning? He slowly crept towards the phone, unsure of what to do. The last time he had received a call at an outrageous time, it had been Sylar.

Mohinder. I need your help.

These words still resonated in his head (and haunted his dreams) as he picked the phone out of its cradle, half nervous, half hopeful. Hopeful. God, I am a sick man. Not that that was his fault. He placed the earpiece against his ear, breathing harshly.

"Hello?" He inhaled sharply, waiting for the answer.

I think I'm gonna do something bad.

"Mohinder!" He exhaled. It was Peter.

"Peter, do you have any idea what time it is?" He shouldn't be annoyed. He should be relieved. He wasn't.

"We have a …problem. Could you come in? Please?"

Mohinder sighed. Not many people could resist Peter's begging.

"Fine."

He dressed quickly, throwing on his brown jacket before locking the door as he left, He had wanted to get out of there anyway. It was too quiet without Molly who was at Matt's this weekend.

He could never get used to the Company building, so incredibly different from his apartment. The stark white walls appeared to glare at him, staring at the intruder. The floor echoed his every step, screaming out to all those who were still in the building. The lights beamed down at him, attempting to penetrate the beautiful caramel skin.

"Mohinder!" His head snapped to his left where Peter was standing. "Come in here!" Peter rushed back into the room from which he had come from. Mohinder sighed before running after him. The room was lit brightly like all the others and was empty except for the large rectangular object sitting in the middle, covered in a dark cloth.

"Promise me you won't freak out?" Mohinder sighed once again. Honestly, this man would be the end of him if he kept exhaling all the air out of his lungs at such a constant rate.

"Peter. I assure you I will not 'freak out,' as you say.' Americans.

Peter gave him a sheepish smile before tearing the cloth off the object.

Mohinder stilled.

It was a painting. Of him.

And Sylar.

There he was, lying on his back, legs spread open like a whore, shirt ripped apart as Sylar lay in between him, about to kiss is lover passionately.

Oh. My. God.

"Mohinder?" He heard the voice, snapping out of the daze he had been in.

"Don't worry. We can stop this."

Mohinder shook his, walking towards the painting, outlining the painting with his index finger.

"That shirt," referring to the one Sylar was wearing in the painting, "It hadn't been his. It was Zane's"

"Zane? As in when Sylar…you two-"

"Yes. I burned that shirt a long time ago. But you already know that." He paused.

"Don't you, Mr Sylar?"

He turned around to face the lie standing in front of him. Peter – no, not Peter – grinned as the façade was removed. Warm brown eyes turned sharp, soft hair became spiky; the small smile became a shark like grin.

"You always did know me too well." Sylar smirked.

Mohinder smiled back.

"Yes, I do."