Off-white walls. Traces of years gone by scratched into the colour. Nothing, other than his own, slowly deteriorating, thoughts as company. It's enough to send a person insane.

Crisscrossing, shimmering crimson patterns, decorated the grimy linoleum that made up the cell floor. Shards of Perspex leading trails of the red stuff behind them.

Disturbing the tranquility, a muted cracking noise sounded out in the tiny room as the all in, spotless, white figure straightened up again. The cheap, last resort trainers they had given him squeaked while the shape stepped over the pale unmoving body splayed out in a pool of its own blood.

Whilst twirling a card between his nimble fingers he chuckled to himself. Speaking to the entire room and its contents, he said, "Now I've consumed your power, just think of all the help you're going to be." With a simple flick of his fingers the room darkened. Only the dead eyes of Eden McCain were visible; glowing an eerie colour due to the river of red flowing next to her. "As they say, a mind is a terrible thing to waste."

Sylar's face stung; whether it was from the harsh bitterness of the weather or from the fist-shape mark he couldn't be sure. However, he was sure on the fact that Peter was not where he was supposed to be. Rising from his position on the floor to his feet, Sylar felt his already aching face. Heat radiated from the patch of reddened skin, and he watched as Peter knelt catching his breath a little way away.

'Why hadn't the power worked?' 'Why was Peter not following his every whim like a little puppy?'

Hundreds of different variations of the same questions raced through his mind; none of which he had the answers to. Supposedly, all the answers were kneeling right in front of him. It surprised him how easily Peter had been able to snap out of trance Eden's power should have put him in.

Sylar sauntered forward to the place where his enemy was struggling to his own unsteady feet. He stood calmly, waiting. Waiting until Peter took a deep shaky breath, looked up and met his eyes. In an instant Peter was shoved backwards by a slight of hand. Making contact with the wall a second time, he was held there by a tight grip. A calloused hand closed around his windpipe, blocking any chance of oxygen. Peter was more shocked by the lack of telekinesis being used than the actual situation of him being trapped and captured again.

"You're stronger than I thought, Peter." The same thought flashed through Peter's mind when he realized his shoes were scraping the wall and air. Kicking limply, making any attempt to reach the floor. Peter had convinced himself a slight bit of telekinesis must have been used, until he saw Sylar's arm twitch; his muscles were working hard apparently. He watched as the trademark smug smile reappeared on Sylar's face, replacing the slightly annoyed look that had been there before. Despite this, Peter could still make out traces of aggravation in his eyes; desperately trying to disguise themselves yet failing miserably.

Peter began to worry about the limitations of how much he could be damaged before it became too much, when black spots began to swarm his vision. His hands scratched uselessly at the arm holding him, not knowing what else to do. With being weakened, his own efforts at telekinesis were futile.

It was a strange feeling, standing at the brink of death. It was as if time had frozen, never recovering, never falling deeper in despair. Holding still. Each dying cell replenishing itself before it could truly die.

What could someone do, in situation like this, to turn the tables in their favor?

In his panicked, oxygen deprived, state, he could think of nothing. The only thing to register in his mind was the dull throbbing pain on his chest. Inching its way from throat to stomach. The pressure relinquished itself from his windpipe, causing Peter to gasp for much wanted air. A groan of pain escaped his lips and his vision cleared, considerably.

Before he had managed to get his bearings back, the causer of his pain decided at that moment to let him go. He surprised both Sylar and himself by landing on his feet. They shook at the impact but somehow stayed solid enough for Peter to stumble forward a few paces. With a lot of effort, Peter lifted his head and tried to focus on Sylar. The far away look on his face seemed out of place, but it was only there for a second so Peter had to doubt whether or not it really happened. Whatever might have puzzled Sylar was definitely forgotten, as he ran his strangely lukewarm palm over Peter's frozen chest. The pain that Peter had felt moments ago was nothing compared to the agony he was experiencing now. Switching from a stinging sensation to a blinding coldness, rhythmically in time with each wheezing breath. The pain getting to the brink of being unbearable. Any thought of stifling the groans of pain, as he hadn't wanted to give him any satisfaction what so ever, was thrown out the window. Then it stopped; his body began to heal, the pain was gone. Curiously, Peter opened his eyes – not quite remembering when he had closed them – to see nothing.

Tumbleweed could have rolled by and it wouldn't have looked that out of place. Far way car horns blared uselessly and the wind whistled quietly to itself. A sudden strong burst of wind chilled Peter to the core, making him realize he was colder than usual. With a quick downwards glance he saw why. His shirt was ripped to shreds and the tattered threads were heavy, soaking in red. A deep gash was nearly visible.

Taking extra special care, Peter dragged the sodden mess, that use to be called a shirt, aside. A weaker version of the earlier pain struck again, causing Peter to bite back a gasp. With his head tilted back against the rough decaying bricks behind him, nothing but the darkened sky was in his field of vision. Slowly but surely the 'shirt' was peeled back to reveal the ruin underneath. Peter somehow managed to get himself to look, immediately though, he regretted it.

With quick, zigzagging, swipes a word had been carved into his chest; and even through all the blood rising to the surface of his skin, the word 'Sylar' was clearly shining out. Peter was unsure whether he should be puzzled or petrified as he stood in the middle of a deserted area with the name of his enemy carved into his shirtless chest. Finally settling on a mixture of the two, he gingerly bent to retrieve the remains of a once favourite shirt; only to see a drop of blood. The fact that he was loosing blood alarmingly fast explained this drip but it didn't explain the thick trail leading off to his left. With no other choice he decided to follow it for a few steps before it disappeared into an alleyway. Wandering into a dark alleyway at night while wounded didn't seem like the best course of action but Peter had to admit, he was curious. Moving with great trepidation he made his way further along the trail. His breathing was strangely calm and so his footsteps were louder.

The alleyway was not as dark as Peter had expected; and he found he could see quite a distance in front of himself with no real trouble. After a couple more steps, the end of the trail materialized through the grey, and he stopped in his tracks. Disappointingly, nothing more interesting, than the grey it had materialized from, appeared. Just the end of the alleyway stood as his prize. The blood had ceased pooling its trail and even his wound had healed, cleanly and smoothly, leaving no traces of what was there before. Torn and tattered, gripped tightly in his fist, the 'shirt' was the only evidence left. Realizing this, Peter subconsciously tightened his, already bruising, hold on the 'shirt'.

As he turned to leave, dejectedly - though he would never admit it – he was held back by a clutch that matched his own strength. Confused and startled, he let himself he tugged backwards. Then, while still feeling not as responsive as he would have liked, let out a sort of 'eep' noise when he was pushed into a brick wall. Peter could have kicked himself when all he could think about was how many times this seemed to be happening today, instead of what was going on.

All on going thoughts, however, were suddenly gone when a pair of winter chapped lips covered his own. A somewhat familiar lukewarm hand placed itself, threatening on Peter's chest; applying just enough pressure to show its true meaning. Only Sylar could convey the thought 'move and you die' with one simple hand movement.

In the blink of an eye, the lips were gone; the hand was gone and the surprising warmth was, sadly, gone. Looking down, he saw the bloody trail had vanished; the night gradually getting later and darker, making even the floor difficult to see. His wound was gone; his scar was gone. His tight grip, however, remained the same as before. His 'shirt', now dry, looking lost against the black background, still remained there, in his hand.

His shirt was still there.

The End

AN: I am aware of how rubbish this ending was, but I had sort of given up. I only carried on because I had spent so much time on it and there were some people who wanted to read it. Sorry if it is disappointing, I just couldn't get it right.

Please read and review. I would gladly take some constructive criticism.