Sylar

It had been a lot like sliding his fingers over that car engine, except softer, more enthralling, and when he was finished he felt more alive than he ever had before.

He rolled the left-overs into a big plastic garbage bag and shoved it in a dumpster a few blocks from the shop. No one noticed him but a homeless man pissing in the corner of the alleyway, and he just laughed.

He didn't sleep that night. He slipped into his closet and sat in the dark all night. He drew on the walls, small letters at first, then bigger ones. He wrote out his guilt, so he could discard it. He would have to if he wanted to return to the mansion.

And he did. He just wasn't sure what he would do when he got there.

Today, he didn't bother to comb his hair carefully to one side and he didn't shave. He pulled on a rumpled sweater and left his glasses on the kitchen table. He arrived at the mansion in the early morning and waited for Charles, so anxious to see him again, to show him that he was more than a repairman, that he was chewing his lips raw.