Sylar watched with dismay as the knife fell from Mohinder's hands. "That was it?!" he yelled, with such volume that it actually hurt his stomach wound. It was becoming clear that this was...not a good, clean stab. It felt like his entire stomach was falling apart, in searing flashes of white hot pain. Sylar sank to the floor, dabbing at the wound with his gloved hand. "You're just going to gut me and leave me to die, bleeding out on the floor. Oh, you are so much crueler than I expected. Thoughtless, just like your father."

He grunted with pain as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position. There was none. He was painfully cold. "Is it still murder if you drag it out for long enough, do you think?" he asked, his voice weakening.