After that night, Sylar stopped coming into her room. The first day he was gone, Eden ran around the bedroom hysterical, afraid that he would never come back and that she'd be locked in there forever. I'm going to starve to death, she thought, and she cried herself to sleep; when she woke up the next morning, she saw a box of cereal lying on top of the dresser. He's still here, he's still watching me, she thought, and she couldn't decide if that was comforting.
The first night she saw him again, a car alarm had gone off across the street, waking her up. She blinked and then closed her eyes, fully intending to go back to sleep. It was then that she heard the door softly open and close, and she felt the side of the bed sink under the weight of another person beside her. There were no footsteps. Her throat tightened, but she kept her eyes closed and did not move. She felt a tentative hand brush against her arm, and she held her breath, pretending to sleep. The hand grew bolder and gently slipped around her waist, and she felt herself being folded up against an invisible man. He's so warm, she thought, but she pushed the thought away. He'll kill me if I move. Eventually she fell asleep again, and when she woke up, no one was there.
Days passed, the passage of time marked only by the endless parade of food and clean clothes every morning on her nightstand. Eden told herself she was grateful for the time alone, but as the days wore on she grew more restless. She would stare for hours out the window, wondering where he was and if he would let her go. But every night, she would fall asleep wrapped in the arms of a man she pretended was not there, and every morning, she would be horrified to feel a slight twinge of regret at waking up alone.
Then one night she felt him touch her--really touch her--and a panicked voice in her head screamed "rape." Suddenly she re-discovered her voice.
"Don't move." Eden said. "You're not going to move; you're going to stay in that corner and you're going to tell me the best way to kill you."
Oh God, the look in his eyes. Eden had a sick feeling in her stomach and she felt herself losing control. It was just the two of them, alone in the bedroom, except this time the door was unlocked and Sylar couldn't move. She wished she could just leave, but she couldn't. There was no way of contacting Bennet, and if she just told Sylar to stop killing, there was no way of knowing if her voice would work, or for how long. She had to kill him--she had no choice. But that sick feeling made her throat tighten, and she fought hard to ignore it.
"Tell me how to kill you," she repeated.
Sylar closed his eyes.
"Tell me!" she said.
"There's a razor in the bathroom across the hall," Sylar said.
Eden walked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. "A straight razor," she said, coming back into the room. "How appropriate."
"You don't want to kill me, you care about me," Sylar said. "You may not admit it, but I know it's true."
"You so sure about that?" Eden asked. She pressed the razor against his neck. "You're a fucking serial killer. I ought to gut you right now."
"Look at you, trying to be all tough. You're shaking," Sylar said. "Without your precious Mr. Bennet you're nothing. Just a scared little girl with a daddy complex."
"You shut up," Eden said.
"I saw the way you looked at Bennet, at Dr. Suresh," Sylar said. "You're so love-starved, you throw yourself at any man who shows you the slightest bit of affection. But no one ever loves you back, Eden—"
"Shut up," Eden said.
"—not even your father," Sylar said. "He didn't want you. No one wanted you. I may be the first person ever to show you that kind of attention."
Eden slapped him hard across the face. "I said shut up!" she said.
"See that?" Sylar asked. A moment of triumph. "Your voice isn't even working anymore."
Eden grabbed his shirt and yanked him toward her. "You think you can threaten me?" she hissed, bringing the blade up to his carotid. "You can't even move unless I tell you to."
"It's not a threat, it's the truth. Why else would you let me be with you every night?" Sylar asked. "Oh yes, Eden. Did you really think I didn't know?"
And there it was, that sick feeling in her stomach. Eden couldn't speak.
"You've been pretending to be asleep," Sylar said. "You probably told yourself you did it because you had to, that I would hurt you if you didn't, but let's be honest, it was the only way you'd let yourself get close to me. But what do I know?" he asked, and his dark eyes narrowed. "I'm just a fucking serial killer."
The sun was starting to come up, and a watery light filtered into the gray room, casting long shadows on the floor. Somewhere outside she heard a car drive by, then another. Eden tried to say, "it's not true," but her voice stuck in her throat. Instead she asked, "how did you know?" and her voice was as soft as a child's.
"You clench your hands when you're sleeping," Sylar said. "The past few nights your hands have been open." And maybe it was a trick of light, or the way his words hung in the air like a thick fog, but with his shoulders hunched and his long body curled up like a comma in the chair, suddenly Sylar wasn't Sylar anymore.
She stared at Gabriel and sat down on the bed, trying not to cry.
"Eden," Sylar said.
"How can I love you?" she asked. Tears rolled down her face and she hugged herself, hard. "You kill people—you killed Papa Suresh. How can I love you? How?" She balled a fist into her eye and shook, silently.
And then she felt it: an invisible hand gently brushing against her face.
Eden looked up, stunned.
"You forgot to tell me I couldn't use my abilities," Sylar said, quietly. And she felt him touch her again, gently and without a hint of threat, his way of reaching out from across the room.
Eden closed her eyes and swallowed.
"I hate you," she said. Her voice was hoarse and thick. "You can move."