There was nothing quite like that sound. It was the same sound as people made when he cut open their skulls, but that was usually cut off sharply enough as he reached inside and snapped everything dead. No, this was something else, because it carried on, and Peter reached back behind himself to try and dislodge the knife. Sylar's grip was strong, but the knife was slippery from blood and water, and the only way to stop him from taking it was to raise his other hand higher, lodging his arm under Peter's armpit to keep his shoulder from rolling back.

"Shh," he rattled, long and slow. As close as a lover's embrace, but this was slaughter, and Peter was the lamb. "This isn't anything new. I know what you're thinking. You want this to stop, but you know this is inevitable. It always is with us. You're better than this. Don't let it shake you, defy it right to the end."

His hair had swept down with the weight of the water, and it stuck it into his eyes and down his face. He felt half drowned, the weight of his wet clothes and a wet Peter bogging him down, but the other man couldn't hold himself up any more. It wouldn't be much longer now.

"Look at me," he said. "Look me in the eye, and tell death that you're not afraid."