Mohinder was about to find out that Sylar would take an infuriatingly long time to die. People with more determination had tried before. He'd always bounced back- and while he doubted he was going to bounce back this time, he was going to make the most of it.

But the pain made him more honest, distracting him as it was. "Feels awful, doesn't it?," he asked weakly, leaning back against the stove he'd been so annoyed with earlier. "You try to make amends, move on. And then you find out no one wants you for anything but murder. You're good at it. So you don't have..." He coughed, wincing. And while it sounded wet and painful, he was also emphasizing it for the sake of drama. "...anything else."