He gasped as the ice cold water hit his skin.

Sylar stood under the shower, letting the needle-like bursts of water hit his back, shoulders, legs. He run his fingers through this hair and let the droplets of water fall into his open mouth. He trembled from the coldness, but it still wasn't working. He still felt "hot and bothered" for lack of a better term to think of. That fresh-faced girl was driving him crazy. Why couldn't she just be like any of his other victims: cowardly, ignorant, useless? He felt no remorse for killing the others, because he knew that they didn't deserve what they had. He was doing them a favor, in fact; they would never have learned to harness the incredible power they possessed the way he had.

But Claire…she was almost his equal. She seemed to have no fear of him—until he seduced her, of course. And then, once he did, she was like an animal!

Sylar closed his eyes and surrendered himself to thinking of that smooth tanned skin, those sad sweet eyes, those luscious curves untouched by no one but himself. She had been a virgin. Once he had a chance to clean himself off, he realized that his fingers had blood on them. He had never been with a virgin before.

He'd only had sex once, and he paid for it. Well, not in the traditional way. He was in his senior year of high school, and Katie Muller, one of the "popular" girls, came to him pleading for him to write a paper for her for English, knowing that he was an exceptional student. She offered to pay him anything, but he merely smiled and told her that the only payment he'd accept would be a night together. She looked terrified and infuriated simultaneously, but she agreed. And Katie definitely wasn't a virgin. So it had meant as little to her as he tried to make it seem it meant for him.

Having de-virginized little Claire, it was so clear. She belonged to him. He'd have to find a way to take her power, but keep her alive as well…

What? Sylar actually slapped himself in the face for thinking that. He was Sylar. He didn't know remorse, mercy, love. He took what was his and didn't look back. Who would he be if he denied himself the one power that he'd wanted for so long?

Why did Claire have to have what he wanted? Why did his prize have to come in a vessel that made him mad with desire? Spare her, and be mortal, vulnerable. Kill her, and never have the chance to lie between those gorgeous golden thighs.

Her power over him was already becoming clear. Just a few hours after his encounter with Claire in the woods, Sylar happened upon a new power, right out in the open, without the help of Mohinder's little list. It was an older man, who lived not too far away from where Sylar was hiding. Sylar saw him trying to get into his home, cursing that he had forgotten his key. Then he saw that the old man's hand began to stretch, and, looking carefully around him, he sent his arm under the door and opened the lock from the inside. Cellular flexibility. Very handy.

But when Sylar had formulated his plan of attack, instantly the image of Claire, pressed against him, her eyes burning while he brought her to the heights of pleasure, flew through his mind. And he couldn't do it. He spared the life of that old man, thinking only of what his newfound lover would think of it. All of his work so far, his entire reason for living…wiped out by the memory of a few moments of passion.

Sylar suddenly used his powers to shut off the water, and then hit the shower door with his fist. His face was wet, but it only took him a few seconds to realize that it wasn't from his shower, but from his tears. He slipped to the shower floor and cried in frustration.

Only a few miles away, Claire was also bathing, lying in a tub of warm water, trying to rid herself of his scent and the filthy way she felt. She was almost certain that her parents were practically sitting right outside the door, guarding her. She sighed sadly. They couldn't protect her. If Sylar wanted her, he'd get to her.

But…she wasn't so sure if she would be against that.

Claire closed her eyes and shivered when she thought of what happened. Sylar's warm breath on her neck, his fingers deep inside her... It had been her first time, and it had hurt, but it felt good too. And then there was the way it ended, with their arms around each other, her licking his blood off her finger. If her father and Peter hadn't come at that moment, they might have ended up having sex. No, it wasn't merely a possibility; it was definite. She was so weak-willed that it would have happened.

She asked herself again: how could this happen? How could she be so weak? She sat up in the water and rubbed her temples. Then she remembered what Mr. Nakamura had said: You must take his strength and make it your own. True power is not given to you; you must take it. Make your passion your weapon. That is the only way you can be free.

"Make passion my weapon," Claire said out loud. "I know what to do."

Hikaro Nakamura was admiring a portfolio of art from one of his favorite Baroque painters in the Special Collections department of the library. He heard footsteps behind him but didn't have enough time to react. Rough hands grabbed him from behind and spun him around.

It was his old friend, Noah Bennet. "I want answers, Hikaro!" Noah demanded in Japanese.

Nakamura looked down at the hands grabbing his collar, then back into the eyes of the man he had known many years ago. "You look good, Noah, considering what you've been through," he said in English. He walked out of Noah's grip and began to put the portfolios away.

"Cut the cordialities, Nakamura. What did you say to Claire the other day?" Noah demanded, switching back to his native tongue.

Nakamura looked back at his persecutor and chuckled grimly. "You still think you can protect her, don't you? Of course, of course. You raised her like your own child. It makes sense that it would be hard for you to let go."

Noah walked over to the man. "I don't intend to let her go. She needs me."

"She has her own battles to fight, my friend. You can't tread where she must go."

"Why?"

Nakamura sighed. He didn't want to be the one to have to tell his old friend this. "Come with me," he said at last.

The two men walked down the empty corridor, flanked by rows and rows of books. Nakamura explained, "You know of Claire's power. You knew she was special for some time. But, what you don't know, is that it is her destiny to save the world."

Noah was confused. "Save the world? From what?"

Nakamura smiled. "From Sylar. One of the most powerful human beings that ever lived."

"How can she save the world? He's too powerful for her—for any of those with abilities."

"Yes," Nakamura said darkly. "My own son tried to stop him. He retarded Sylar's movements, for a while. But as a result, he is lost on a new adventure." The powerful businessman looked distantly to the end of the room. "I have no idea where, or when, he is. I do know that he's very far away. I don't know if I'll ever see him again." Nakamura saw the sympathetic look on Noah's face and motioned for them to keep walking.

"I thought Hiro would be the one to stop Sylar. But now I see that he can't be destroyed. There is only one option left, and that is where Claire figures in."

Noah began to feel a chill run up his spine. "What is Claire supposed to do?"

Nakamura smiled bitterly at his old friend. "Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes, yes, I do. I can't stand not knowing."

"Yes of course. You always had to be in control; isn't that correct, Noah? Well you can't control this. Claire is beginning to discover the duality of her nature."

"What duality?"

"The light and dark that lives in her. That lives in most people, although it is not usually as much of a struggle for them. It is in her genes, Noah. The great capacity for compassion and goodness, but also for acts of destruction and violence. It runs in her family, all of whom have abilities on some level or another."

"What does this have to do with Sylar?"

"Sylar must endure the same struggle. Did you think he was born evil, Noah? It was his greed, his selfishness that have taken him over. He has gotten to the point where his powers have made him virtually unstoppable. But, if he can be…distracted, he perhaps can be turned."

"Turned? This is Sylar. This is a man who's killed people, without mercy, and with pleasure."

"I am not naïve. It will be a long, consistent struggle. But it is possible. Sylar can be used for the greater good. But someone will have to mold him."

"And this someone…is Claire?"

Nakamura smiled. "Of course. Tell me Noah, what is Claire's greatest strength?"

Noah looked at him with puzzlement. "Her healing factor, of course."

Nakamura shook his head. "You, of all people, should know Claire's greatest strength. It's her beauty. Both inside and out. That's what Sylar is attracted to. Her healing factor is—has always been—secondary."

Noah put his hand to his forehead. "So what you're saying…is that I'm supposed to sit back and let a serial killer seduce my daughter?"

Nakamura put his hands on his friend's shoulders. "She's not your daughter, Noah. You may love her like one, but she's not yours. She belongs to herself, now. And the "serial killer" won't be doing all the seducing. I have a feeling Claire will be doing a good deal of it herself."

Noah looked at his friend with a mixture of horror and disgust. Nakamura just laughed.

Instead of doing her homework, Claire sat at her desk in her room, trying to formulate a plan. She was going to bring down Sylar. She was going to seduce him, wait until lust had made him most vulnerable, and then…kill him…somehow.

There was a knock on her door. It was her mother. "Hey hon, there's some mail for ya," Sandra told her.

Claire stood up from her desk and took the small envelope from her. "Thanks, Mom," she said with a smile. She put the envelope on the table and sat back down, pretending to do something on the computer.

Sandra leaned against the doorframe, looking at the girl she had raised as her own, so close to her, and yet so far away. She wanted to say something, she felt the need to, but she didn't know what. Finally, she said the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm sorry."

Claire stopped what she was doing and looked at her strangely.

"I mean, I'm sorry for all that's happened to you. I know you didn't ask to be born this way. And if I could, I'd make it all better." After Sandra had finished, Claire gave her the kindest condescending smile she could.

"I know how 'lame' that sounded, but it's how I feel, damn it," Sandra barked.

Claire stood up again and gave her mother a hug. "I know, Mom. I know," she whispered into her mother's shoulder. "It'll be fine, really. I haven't come this far to be beaten now."

Sandra was little surprised at such a somber reassurance from her 18 year old daughter, but she smiled and said, "I'll leave you to your work." And she left the room.

Claire turned her attention to the piece of mail addressed to her. She looked over the envelope and noticed there was no return address. Heart pounding, she slowly opened the seal and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was written in black felt ink, bold clear strokes and block lettering.

It said:

412 RYAN AVENUE, FRIDAY, 6 PM. COME TO ME OR I'LL COME TO YOU.

Claire needed saving, even if she didn't think she did. Peter wasn't going to let Sylar play mind games with her, lure her into a trap and take her gift. He had faced the serial killer before and, while he wasn't victorious, he knew what was in store for him. But before he could do anything, he needed answers. And if Claire wasn't going to tell him, then there was only one other person who might know.

Peter stood at the reception desk of the Red Rose press and asked for Noah Gaither. He was eventually allowed to travel to the fourth floor, and, after asking for directions, found the former Mr. Bennet at his desk.

Noah looked up at his visitor, smiled, and took off his glasses. "Peter. What can I do for you?"

Peter shut the door behind him and walked up to the desk. "You can give me answers. The moment I gave you Nakamura's name you clammed up. You know something."

Noah looked over Peter's shoulder out of the window of his office to see if anyone was nearby. But there wasn't and he turned his attention back to his visitor. "I know very little, Peter. But what I do know is that there isn't much we can do."

Peter was stunned. "How-how can you say that? Claire is your daughter--"

"And she's your niece. I know," Noah interrupted. "But she also has a future she has to face by herself. She is the key to saving the world from Sylar."

"But he'll kill her!"

Noah shook his head. "No, he won't. Not that I prefer the alternative, but he doesn't want to kill her anymore."

"And how do you know this?"

"Nakamura told me. He's an old friend."

"Hiro?"

"No. Hikaro. His father."

Peter ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "And you're sure you can trust this guy? Haven't all your experiences taught you that you can't always believe everything you hear?" When Noah was silent Peter leaned over the desk. "Look, I know you feel powerless. But something tells me that Claire is in danger and I have to help her. And…I would prefer to have you with me." Peter straightened and walked toward the door.

"Wait."

Peter turned back. Noah was putting on his jacket and walking towards the door.

"Let's go. She should be home from school by now."

Claire was finished packing the last of her things. She didn't really know what you were supposed to pack when you were about to face a cold-blooded killer who was hot for your body, but she thought she did well: matches, a flashlight, $50 in cash, a couple of granola bars, a bottle of water, a jacket, and a kitchen knife. But then she remembered that passion was supposed to be her weapon. So she changed from a t-shirt and sweatpants into a pair of tight dark blue jeans, a low cut pink sweater, and high heeled boots. After spraying herself with some perfume, she took a look at herself in the mirror. She looked like she going out to get lucky, but she was packed for pulling a "Buffy" and then skipping town.

The letter had said 6 pm Friday, which was today. Sylar had given her just enough time to receive the letter and develop a plan for action. She took a deep breath and headed down the stairs.

But her mother was there, as she was trying to leave out of the back door. "Claire honey! Where are you going?"

Claire turned to face her mother. "I just need to go out for a little while, Mom. I'll be back soon," she lied with a smile.

Her mother walked towards her. "Hon, why don't you wait until your father comes home from work? He'll drive you anywhere you want to go."

Claire's smile fell. "I can't wait for him, Mom. What I need to do, I need to do alone."

"Claire, it's not safe for you to go out. That Sylar man is out there, waitin' for you!"

"I know he is," Claire replied gently. "That's where I'm going."

"No!" Sandra cried, grabbing Claire's arm. "Have you lost your mind? He'll kill you!"

"He didn't last time," Claire said slowly. Oh God, was she really going to tell her mother?

"That's because Peter and your father came in time, Claire. Who knows what would have happened if they hadn't?"

"They didn't come in time Mom," Claire said in an eerie voice, now pulling her arm out of her mother's grasp. "They missed what happened…we…we finished before they got there."

"Finished what?" Sandra asked with horror.

Claire couldn't bear to tell her. "Mom, I'm going to finish what I started. I'm going to kill him. I'm the only one who can."

"No! No Claire, I won't let you!" Sandra tried to grasp Claire's arm again, but the girl slipped by her and ran to the front door. Claire had just gotten there when Sandra grabbed her from behind and spun her around.

Without thinking, Claire pushed with all her might and sent her mother crashing to the ground. Sandra looked up at her with the most heart-wrenching look imaginable. But Claire remained resolved.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Claire said, catching her breath. "But this is something I need to do." She picked up her bag and calmly headed out the door.

Noah and Peter arrived only a few minutes after Claire had left, but they were too late. They entered the house to find Sandra slumped on the sofa, crying. Noah dashed to her and held her in his arms, asking her what happened.

"Oh she's gone after him, Noah! Our baby's gone to face that killer—and I'm afraid I'm never gonna see her again!" Sandra moaned in despair.

"Sandra. Did she say anything about where she was going? Anything that might give us a clue?" Peter asked.

Sandra shook her head and sniffled. "Nothing. I just know she got a letter today…"

"A letter!" Noah said to Peter. "We need to go upstairs and see if she left it."

The two men ran up the stairs to Claire's room and tore through everything they could find. They were about to give up hope when they found a small envelope crushed in her waste paperbasket. Noah unfolded it, only to find with disappointment that there was no letter inside, merely the envelope with no return address.

"If only Molly were here," Noah said with a deep sigh.

"Can't you call her?" Peter asked.

Noah shook his head. "Don't know where she is. I've lost touch with most of our…group since this thing first happened."

Peter looked at the envelope again, then slowly smiled. "Maybe all isn't lost. Look! The post office stamped the zip code of the return address across the stamp!

We can't know exactly where she is, but at least we can find the neighborhood!"

"94080. That's not too far from here," Noah said. He looked at the younger man. "Come on. Hopefully we'll reach her in time."

Claire walked listlessly down Hartford street which adjoined Ryan Avenue. She looked at her watch and saw that there was a whole hour left before the specified meeting time. She sighed and looked into the windows of the little shops. In one, she saw a girl a little younger than herself looking at necklaces with her mother. The two seemed to be having a lovely time together, laughing and talking and comparing different pendants. Suddenly Claire's eyes filled with tears. That could have been herself and her mother, only a year ago. But she had just thrown her mother to the ground in order to meet a man who either wanted to kill her, ravage her, or both. Such was her lot in life. She wasn't destined to be normal in any way.

Claire wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and looked around. She nearly jumped when she looked across the street and saw her stalker, looking nonchalantly into one of the shop windows. He seemed to be looking at the watches on display in the window, and he looked to be mesmerized by them, laying his hand on the glass as if he wished he could touch them.

So. Finally the element of surprise was on Claire's side. She quietly walked across the way, hoping the loud noises of the street would mask the sound of her steps. She was only a few feet from her nemesis and he still didn't seem to have noticed her. From behind, he cut quite a striking figure: tall, lean, dark. Claire could understand why part of her would be attracted to him. But she knew beneath that alluring exterior beat the heart of a killer. And she was here to make sure he never killed again.

So she decided to announce her arrival. "Killing time too, I see? You didn't have to pick anything out for me, though I appreciate the sentiment," Claire called, as bravely as she could.

Sylar spun around. Claire noticed that the scratches she gave him were still visible, but were now more of a pinkish color rather than red. "Getting quite cocky, aren't you, Claire?" he answered, although Claire could see he was visibly moved by her presence.

Claire looked over his shoulder at the watches. "You like watches?" she said. Why was she making conversation with this man? She must be more nervous than she thought.

Sylar smirked and looked back at them. "I used to repair watches. That was how I found my gift. I could see how things worked."

"And once you saw how things worked?" Claire inquired, moving a little closer to him.

"Then I could see how to fix them," Sylar answered, then turned around to find, with surprise, that Claire was closer than arm length to him. "Or, as the situation is now, how to mimic them."

Claire smiled sweetly. "Why don't we go someplace more private and talk? I'm sure we both have things that need to be said."

Sylar was struck by the dangerous, seductive tone of her voice. But he was not about to be intimidated by a five foot three, 100 pound cheerleader. He smiled back and replied, "412 Ryan is only a short walk from here. We'll simply move up our meeting time."

Claire just nodded and allowed him to lead the way. She could feel her heart pounding in her ears as she followed the man who once tried to kill her—who might try again, in fact. Either way, she decided, things were going to end right then and there.

412 Ryan turned out to be a large house on the very edge of the shopping district. Sylar held the door open for Claire, which the latter found surprisingly gentlemanly. He then stepped in front of her and led the way. They walked up a flight of stairs until they got to a small door at the very top, which Sylar had a key for and opened the door. Once she entered, Claire was surprised at how much room there was in the apartment, if that's what it was. But perhaps it was because there was little or no furniture. The only noticeable object in the room was a paint canvass and a table with brushes.

Sylar walked ahead of her and drew the blinds, thereby reducing the amount of light coming into the room, although the sun was beginning to set. Claire looked behind her, escape at the back of her mind, but Sylar slammed the door and locked it with one deft move of his wrist.

"Finally. Alone," Sylar said in a deep voice. Claire looked at him, wondering if the terror was showing on her face.

"I have something I want to show you," Sylar told her, and quickly took her hand, which was tense and limp, and led her to the front of the canvass.

Claire gasped when she saw the picture. It was clearly the two of them, in the woods as they had been the other day. They were locked in an embrace, their foreheads pressed together, exactly as they had been after she and Sylar had had their...moment.

"I painted this the day after I kidnapped you," Sylar told her. "That's how I knew where to find you the other day—because I knew this was meant to happen. What I don't know, is what this means—for me."

"You-you can see the future?" Claire asked him.

Sylar chuckled. "I can—now. It's a little ability I picked up from an artist named Isaac Mendez when I was in New York city."

Claire ground her teeth in disgust. How could he talk so casually about killing someone? "An ability you picked up?" Claire demanded, her voice rising. Sylar actually stepped back in surprise. "Picked up? You mean stole! Cutting into someone's head, butchering them like an animal!" With that, Claire grabbed the painting off the canvass and threw it against the wall.

With every ounce of strength she had, Claire threw herself at Sylar, knocking him to the ground. While he was stunned, she took the opportunity to dig her nails back into the cuts she had already given him. He yelled out in pain.

"How do you like that, you son of a bitch?" Claire demanded. She leaned over and bit deep into his neck, drawing more blood, which caused him to scream again. "You thought you could take advantage of me—that I was just a weak little girl! Well, I've learned from my run-ins with you and…I'm…going…to…" Claire was having trouble getting her words out; her air passages were being restricted. She put her hands on her throat, then looked down at Sylar, whose eyes became dark with malice. He was using his telekinesis to choke her!

She began to move off of him, trying to crawl away, while Sylar stood once again, blood running down his cheek and neck. "Claire, you are very nearly my equal, but you also underestimate me like so many others have." He walked towards the crumpled form on the floor. Just as Claire was beginning to lose consciousness, Sylar flicked his wrist and allowed her windpipe to expand again. Claire gasped for breath and coughed while he rubbed her golden hair with his hand. At last, weak, she lay on her back on the floor while Sylar leaned over her.

"When are you going to realize I don't want to kill you?" Sylar ran the back of his hand over her cheek. "I want to understand the power you have over me."

Claire stared up at the man who was supposed to be her enemy. His touch was so soft. She began to wonder if his lips were as tender as his fingertips. She had the sudden urge to take his head in her hands and pull his face down to hers for a kiss. She was almost sure now that he would return a kiss as fervently as she could give it.

But she dismissed the intention from her mind. She had to resist temptation. She had come so far already. She just needed to make him drop his guard, and then she'd be rid of him for once and all.

"But you see," Claire said between breaths. "There's a problem. Because I want to kill you!" With that, she sat up pulled the kitchen knife she had slipped in her back pocket when he wasn't looking and tried to stab him. But Sylar was too strong. He wrenched the knife out of her hand, and with a mere index finger, sent her flying across the room, the knife flying swiftly behind her.

Claire felt her back hit the wall, hard, and then something sharp pierce her skin, right up to her lung. She looked down, and with surprise, saw the kitchen knife buried in her right breast. Her feet were a half a foot off the ground. Sylar had pinned her to the wall with the knife.

She felt like her chest was on fire. It was probably the worst pain she'd ever felt—worse than being hit by a car, worse than falling off a building. And she could barely breathe. She wished she could die right then and there, the pain was so excruciating.

"Why you do you keep forcing me to hurt you?" Sylar asked her, drawing near. "You--you do something to me. I don't know what it is." He licked his lips. "Did you know that I found someone else with a power the other day? I saw him—his limbs had incredible elasticity. He didn't know I was looking when he lost his key and he stretched his arm under the door to open it from the inside. I could have so easily taken his power. But I didn't. It wasn't important. All I wanted was another chance with you again. You're the only thing I want anymore."

"You could be lying," Claire said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have no reason to trust you."

"Do you trust what you feel?" Sylar asked.

Claire felt that she was going to lose consciousness, she was in so much pain, but she closed her eyes, swallowed, and fought to stay awake.

"I feel afraid," she whispered.

"You don't need to be afraid of me--"

"I'm not afraid of you! I'm afraid of me!" Claire cried out as loudly as she could muster. Her voice came out like a croak. Her mind flashed back to all of the things she had done—had allowed to be done to her. She had darkness in her. The darkness terrified her.

Sylar's eyes widened. What was going on here, between the two of them? There had been such a perfect equation between them: she, the prey; he, the predator. She was to be his food, that nourished his spirit and made him strong. But, now…he felt that the roles were reversed. This young girl, pinned to the wall with a knife puncturing her lungs, she had the power over him. She didn't make him strong; she made him weak.

Sylar closed his eyes, and, with a wave of his hand, caused the knife to fall from Claire's chest. Claire gasped from the removal and fall to the ground, coughing blood. Sylar stood there, watching the huddled form, until eventually Claire stood up, the front of her sweater covered in blood but otherwise without a scratch on her.

Sylar looked her over. She was so beautiful. Strong, and defiant, and with a vicious streak that he found incredibly sexy.

Before she could protest, he took her in his arms, sliding down to kiss her. She seemed to passively accept the kiss, but when they broke away, she said, with complete sincerity, "I hate you." And she did hate him, but now she knew she couldn't kill him. It was as if the part of her that cared about everything else in the world had flown away. She felt reckless, ruthless, powerful.

Sylar chuckled evilly. "I know."

Although the living room was bare, the next room had a bed in it. Made sense. Even homicidal maniacs needed their rest, Claire reasoned.

Clothes pulled off. Lips kissing frantically. Arms, legs entangled. Not a word of rationality was spoken.

Claire looked down at the man that just a few months ago would have taken advantage of her lust and killed her. Now she was in control. She was using passion as her weapon, just as Mr. Nakamura had told her.

Sylar was a tall man, and he was definitely built proportionately. Claire had to ease herself onto his long thickness, and when she finally was done, she felt she could barely breathe. But when she looked down at him and saw the fiery look in his eyes, she knew what to do. She bent down to kiss him, her hair falling like a golden curtain on each side of his face.

Peter had unwittingly heard thoughts, but they were so disturbing he couldn't bear to tell Noah.

They had wandered the district of the zip code for an hour, with no luck. No one could even say they had seen anyone matching either Sylar's or Claire's description. They were about to give up and look elsewhere when Peter heard something.

Ohh, God this feels so good. She's so warm, and wet and tight.

Peter's eyes widened in horror. Sylar was raping Claire! He had to find them fast. But he had to keep it from Noah at all costs. What greater horror is there than a father finding his daughter being raped?

"Peter? What is it?" Noah asked with concern.

Peter snapped out of it and looked at Noah. "Nothing. Just thinking. Listen: we didn't really take a good look in that café over there, or in that bookshop. Why don't we split up and check them out, then meet back here?"

Noah eyed Peter suspiciously, but, much to Peter's relief, agreed to look in the café. Once Noah was in the store Peter ran in the direction of the thoughts he heard.

Eventually he came to a large house on the corner of the district, and as he tried to tune in again, he heard yet another chilling thought: She's so beautiful—she belongs to me.

Peter raced up the stairs, until he got to a locked door. He was just about to burst in when he heard another thought, this time coming from Claire:

Ohh he feels so good. Oh what am I going to do after this is over?

Peter was horrified, but he had to know what was happening. Using the telekinesis he got from Sylar, he broke the lock on the door, and immediately made himself invisible. He could hear soft groans and moans in the next room, and he tiptoed over to it. The sight he saw in that room instantly made him feel violently ill.

Sylar was lying on a bed, and Claire was straddling him, her head thrown back in ecstasy. His hands were on her hips, moving her back and forth. Finally Claire's moans began rising in volume, turning into a scream of satisfaction. A minute later Sylar gripped her hips and pulled her to him, at last letting out a gasp of release.

Peter shook his head in disbelief, and somehow made his way out of the apartment and back onto the street. Claire wasn't being raped. She was doing it consentingly, and seeming to enjoy it a great deal! How could she do this? He then remembered one of the thoughts he'd read from her before: that she was asking herself that exact question.

All Peter knew was that he felt betrayed. And he couldn't face Noah. Remaining invisible, he left the district as fast as he possibly could.

When Claire opened her eyes, she realized she must have fallen asleep. She turned over, and with horror found herself lying next to Sylar. Then it all had come back to her. She slept with him. She seduced him, had sex with him, and had fallen asleep. She remembered everything, but almost felt like someone else had done it, using her body. But no. It was her. She was responsible for everything she had done.

Sylar was asleep, and he actually seemed at peace. All traces of malice, greed, sadism were washed from his face. Claire looked at him and wondered if, perhaps, there was a time when he had been a good person. A slight smile had formed on his face, and Claire couldn't help but smile too. Maybe he was having a dream.

But then her smile fell. She remembered who this man was. How many people (that she knew of) he had killed. How he had tormented her family, had tried to kill Peter. He was heartless. She was sure of it.

Or was he? He had just shown a great deal of vulnerability in the last hour. Maybe he could be reformed. She just didn't know. But she knew she wasn't willing to betray the love of those she was sure of for the sake of someone she wasn't.

Claire slid off the bed, and, gathering her clothes, put them on as quickly as she could, praying each second that he wouldn't awaken.

Thankfully he remained asleep as Claire tiptoed out of the room, out of the house, and, part of her hoping, out of his life forever.

Sylar awakened, but didn't open his eyes just yet. His whole body felt wonderful. He'd had a release like he'd never felt before. Oh, Claire was a dream. She was delicious in so many ways. Sylar found himself thinking, with a certain level of incredulity, that if he had her with him for the rest of his life, he'd never be hungry for anything else again.

But then he opened his eyes and turned over in bed, and she wasn't there. He sat up in horror, frantically looking around the room. "Claire?" he called. He jumped out of the bed and looked in the bathroom, the living room, and would have torn the room apart if there had been anything to tear.

"She's gone," he said out loud. Then a voice in his head said, of course she's gone, Gabriel. Do you really think she'd stay with a murderer like you?

"No!," Sylar said, running to the window, heedless of the fact that he was naked. He slammed his fists against the glass, screaming, "Claire! Claire! Claaaaaaaaaiiiiiiire!"