“This isn’t right.” I’d arrived thirty seconds ago and already this room was lying to me.

“What isn’t right, Dex?” I was grateful that Deb was here.  She was so much easier to deal with in strange situations.  And with a scene as impossible as this seemed to be, it would have been hell dealing with Doakes.

“The blood spatter. It’s…for this pattern, the victim would have to have been floating in mid air. But there’s no sign of any support and no voids to suggest anything’s been removed. And here,” I pointed at the wall nearest the door, “it's like the blood went around something, a person.”

“Okay, so the perp should be coated in blood. I'll talk to the guy who called it in, an... Isaac Mendez. See if he saw anything.” 

Deb walked over to the man and started taking details. It would have been purely routine if he hadn’t been staring at me. In my job, people watch me out of revulsion, horror, perverse fascination; but this was none of those. This was curiosity, not about the work, or the scene. This felt personal. I tried to ignore it and get on with the analysis.

Back at the precinct I reviewed the photos again. There was something, something bothering me. Something about Isaac. Something that didn’t match up. 

“Hijo de puta!” There’s something about Spanish curses that I’ve always been fond of.

“Que pasa, Angel?” 

“Damn dog shit, I tracked it in and now my desk smells like shit!”

And that was it, footprints. There weren’t any. If Isaac had discovered the body, he should have tracked bloody footprints out of the room. So either he’d lied about discovering the body, or he’d changed his clothes before calling the police. I called Deb. 

“You need to talk to Isaac Mendez again. There’s something wrong with him.”

“No shit, Dex. For a start, he’s dead.” 

“What, when?”

“That’s the really fucking bad part. He died three months ago.” 

“So our only lead gave us a dead man’s name?”

“Yeah, did forensics get any prints from the room, any that might have been his?” 

“There was nothing, not even a smudge. He cleaned up after himself.”

“Dammit! The lieutenant’s gonna have my ass.” 

I thought back to the scene. Isaac was too interested to just skip town. And I had a bad feeling that I knew where he was.

So here we are. I’m standing outside my apartment, knife in my back pocket and garrotte wrapped around my hand. He’s in there, I know he’s in there. Deep breath and door open. I try and walk in as though it’s just a normal day, but movement in the corner of the room distracts me. I spin round, garrotte ready and face…nothing. A blind moving in the breeze from the window. And now he knows I’m armed.

“Hard day, Mr. Morgan?” He’s sitting on the couch on the opposite side of the room. “Or do you normally come home armed.” 

I drop the garrotte on the kitchen counter. Element of surprise gone, it’s practically useless. “Normally house-guests wait for me to come home before inviting themselves in.” He’s smiling and I’m not feeling reassured.

“Something I can help you with Mr Mendez?” Like directions to the door, or the nearest police station. 

“I had to come.” He stands up and starts walking towards me. Something about him makes me want to back away. “I saw you at the crime scene.” He’s still talking as he gets closer. “You're…different. Are you special?”

The way Isaac emphasises ‘special’ makes me pause. I begin to stutter and bluff, trying to persuade the man in front of me that he’s wrong and I’m just another lab-rat. A false sense of security is the serial killer’s friend. I look up and deep brown eyes are focused on me. ‘Isaac’ smiles. 

"I used to be you, you know. Similar, anyway. Do you want to be like this forever? Don’t you want to evolve?"

Smugness and superiority. Good, this is my chance 

"What makes you think I need to evolve?"

I start towards him, hoping the surprise of my action will throw the man off his guard. Moving forwards, I pull a knife from my back pocket. Or would have, if said knife had still been in said pocket. Taking my eyes off ‘Isaac’ for a second, I search for it. 

"Looking for this?" The voice sounds from directly behind my right ear. Fighting the urge to spin around, (Harry had always taught me to focus on the weapon, not the man) I fix my gaze on the knife, floating unsupported, 3 inches in front of my face.

Hot breath licks my earlobe again. "Want it back?" The man is definitely taunting me now. Never a good idea. I reach for the knife, only for it to float away. My arm falls back to my side and the knife floats back. 

I know this game. The kids at high school had loved it. “Keep, away! Keep away," they'd yelled. I know this game.

I reach my hand out again and jab my elbow into the man's stomach. The knife drops and I catch it as the man doubles over. In a smooth movement, I swing round and have the knife at his neck. 

"The first thing that you are going to do is tell me your real name, or I am going to slit your throat." Of course, this is my apartment and I’d really like to not have to do this here. Given a choice, I’d prefer to knock him out, drug him and take him somewhere more, private.

He’s laughing. That’s…unexpected. 

"You want my name? My name is Sylar and I’m wanted by the FBI, several state police, The Company and a dark-haired scientist."

“For?” 

“Murder mainly, although I’m not so sure about the scientist.”

Wow, that makes things a lot easier. "Good to know," I murmur into Sylar's ear. Let’s see how he likes it. “That simplifies things.” 

“I wouldn’t say that, if I were you.”

The knife touching Sylar’s throat suddenly seems to freeze in my hand. Not in the sense of being halted, but a literal chilling of the metal. The ice burns me and I throw the blade away. I stand back as Sylar turns on me. Tilting his head to the side and smiling again, Sylar closes the small space between us. 

“What exactly did you think you were going to do to me?” The smile remains, furthering my suspicions that Sylar is on some form of mind-altering drugs, and I find myself frozen. This time exactly in the sense of being halted. Well, this isn’t something Harry had ever prepared me for. In this situation, I figure the truth is the best option.

“I was going to kill you. That’s what I do.” A wave of relief washes over me again, just as it had done in my therapist’s office. Admitting what I do always takes me that way. 

“Interesting. You’re not the first. In fact,” Sylar seems to pause, as though counting in his head. “You’re probably the fifth or sixth. It depends on whether you count individual events or just the number of people who have tried to kill me.”

“I could recommend a good therapist, but I had to kill him last year.” 

“Are you trying to impress me?”

“You started this pissing contest.” 

We regard each other for a while. I wonder if it would be rude to ask how he managed to leave the crime-scene without a drop of blood on him. In the current circumstances, I decide, the risk of a demonstration is too great.

Then reality breaks and surreality takes over. The man in front of me, this Sylar, starts laughing. It‘s strange to watch, a man who so recently had attempted to kill - hold on. 

Sylar had never tried to kill me.

I’d made several attempts to at least wound the man, but Sylar had done nothing more than restrain and taunt me. That’s, strange certainly, but no more odd than the sight of a self-confessed murderer doubled over laughing so hard that it looks as though he might fall over. 

“Are you, are you alright?” I’m not sure what answer I’m expecting.

Sylar’s laughter fades and he sits back on his haunches. “This is the longest conversation I’ve had with someone who knows who I am. And it’s with a serial killer.” 

“Yeah.” I genuinely sympathise with him “It can catch you like that. Is this the first time you’ve talked about it?”

He snorts. “Not even close. I don’t hide, I don’t have to hide.” 

At that moment my envy of him overtakes my desire to kill him.

“But you do, don’t you,” he says, like he’s working out a puzzle. Normally I like puzzles, but not when I’m the subject. 

“Is it frustrating? Having no-one to talk to? Pretending all day?” Great, he’s mocking me again. And I still can’t move enough to even give him the finger.

“Wanna talk about it?” I roll my eyes but then catch sight of his face as he walks over to me. He’s serious. He’s not kidding for once. This is bizarre.

After Rudy, Biney, whoever he was, I thought my curse was that there is no-one I can talk to. But here he is, offering himself up to me.…and he sought me out. Why? 

Soft lips begin to stroke the curvature of my neck. Oh, that’s why.

“I see how you work,” he says and again there’s a strange tone to his voice, as though he can actually see inside me, all the little cogs and wheels spinning around. The only people who see that tend to die. Usually by my hand. 

The lips move lower, his fingers stretching my polo-shirt collar. Maybe I don’t have to kill this man immediately. Especially as I still can’t move my limbs.

He must have felt my muscles tense when I tried to move. Walking back in front of me he looks as though he’s considering something. Without warning, he shoves me backwards with one outstretched hand. I stumble a little before I get my balance. About to say something in response, I reconsider and close my mouth. I can move again. 

“You know I’m going to kill you,” I say. There doesn’t seem to be any need for niceties and I’ve always tried to be optimistic.

“Likewise,” he responds. This time we both smile. Mine is the smile I reserve for victims, and I assume his is the same. Feral, superior, powered by building adrenaline and with just a hint of hunger. 

At this point in films, each man should stalk the other, circling until one decides to strike. Nothing so dramatic happens. I wait for him. I’m the underdog here and need to find a weakness to exploit. I don’t wait long.

This rush now? Is unbelievable. I mean, this could end so many ways. Personally I’m hoping for alive and intact, for me at least. We’re fighting, no weapons, no flying objects, just hand to hand. And I get the feeling that he’s humoring me, holding back somehow, like this is a game. I like games, it’d just be nice if I knew the rules. 

I push Sylar hard against the wall, and before I can work out what I’m doing, he’s grabbed me by the collar again, using it to pull me into him. I try and brace myself, palms flat against the wall. All I end up doing is trapping us both. There’s no space between us anymore; my nose is brushing his cheek and every breath he exhales burns my lips. I can smell the blood on it and can’t help wondering if the same metallic tang flavors his tongue.

I’m not sure which of us starts it, but as soon as we’re kissing and I taste him, the rush intensifies. My tongue moves frantically, I can’t stop, I want to explore every inch of him. Only when I feel his hair curling around my fingers do I realize my hands are mimicking the action. 

I try and focus, try to think past the pounding beat in my ears. There’s cotton in one hand. I scrunch it upwards and stroke the skin beneath it. Hearing the groan this causes is almost as satisfying as feeling the waves of sound crash in my mouth.

He grips my shirt more tightly and spins us. Now it’s me with my back against the wall. I feel like I should fight back, for the look of the thing. I push away from the wall and we finally break apart. Not far apart, just enough to watch each other’s expressions. I wonder if I look as fucked as he does. Probably. 

He raises an eyebrow at me and shakes his head. I shrug and again I have no idea who started this. I’m getting used to the rush now, I can start to think. I think I want him out of that sweater.

I hate clichés. They’re unimaginative phrases used by people too stunted or lazy to be inventive. But I honestly have no idea when my shirt ended up on the floor. Not that it matters while the coarse hair of Sylar’s naked chest is scratching my skin every time we press together. My hands are on his back, dragging him closer to me. I’m leaving bruises with my fingers; Harry wouldn’t approve but it probably doesn’t matter. I don’t think I’ll survive this. Especially not if his tongue keeps licking me right there. 

I’m gasping for air now, trying to process the sensations. It’s an impossible task and I eventually give up. Fuck it.

There’s an idea. 

I stroke a path down his back, below his ribs and along to his belt buckle. The licking stops and he looks up at me. I raise my eyebrow as I lower my hand. His eyes fix intensely on mine and his hand comes up and grabs the back of my neck. I can feel his breath again and it’s another impasse, both waiting for the other to make a move. I grin and with one finger stroke the length of him.

And I’m surprised. 

I’d expected another crushing kiss. Instead Sylar’s forehead is against mine and his breathing is labored. Another languorous stroke and he shudders against me. Oh this is good. This is better than good. I wrap my fingers around him, feel him tense in anticipation, and I stop.

His breath is coming in pants now, but his eyes snap open. Now that I’ve got his attention I remove my hand completely, unable to keep the smirk from my lips. 

“Fucking tease,” he spits at me before yanking down my pants and boxers. As his hand curls around my cock, I wonder if taunting an apparently super-powered serial killer is a good idea. When his hand starts to move, I just don’t care anymore.

My hand finds its way back to his pants, whether through my will or his, I don’t know. I fumble a little with the button and fly. They suddenly come apart below my fingers. He must be impatient. Better not keep him waiting. 

I curl my fingers around his length again, just as he begins to move his fist along mine. The sweat in my palm is lubricant enough. His pace increases and his other hand grips my hip painfully. I’m not the only one leaving bruises.

I try and match his rhythm, swirling not just up and down but around with more and less pressure. It’s getting too hard to think and my head hits the wall as I lean back, gulping down air in short pants. And right when I think this is too much, he wrenches my hip forward. Our fists and cocks collide and that almost does it for me. I’m thrusting into his hand when he removes it, taking my hand away from him. I’d hate to think that noise I made was a whimper, but it did sound needy. 

“Shhh,” he blows into my ear, before closing my hand around both our lengths.

Oh this is…this is such a good idea. 

His hand joins mine and sets a rhythm. And that’s it. No more thinking. No more processing sensations. It’s like a void on a blood-stained wall. Chaos all around and then a perfect clear nothing. But the good nothing, not the inner, missing nothing. Just…just nothing.

Then I’m sliding down the wall, pants at my feet while Sylar is still braced against the wall above me. The only sound audible is breathing. Sylar reaches his free hand out and one set of breathing stops. I realise it’s mine just before I pass out.

I’m surprised when I wake up in the same position.  I’m kinda surprised to have woken up at all. I tilt my head forward, trying to focus on a silver blur on the wall opposite. My vision clears and a choked noise makes its way out of my mouth. It was meant to be a laugh.

On the wall opposite is a message from Sylar, written in an appropriate medium for serial killers. Duct tape lettering spells out both a threat and a promise. 

SEE YOU AGAIN. SOON.