After returning to the orphanage, the children said little. One by one, they drifted to their rooms, faces pale, eyes empty. They wanted only to crawl into bed and forget the day, to bury the memory beneath the warmth of their blankets. No one could blame them. The horror in the forest had been too much for hearts so young.
Sylar, however, did not follow them. He watched his friends disappear down the hallway before turning in the opposite direction, toward the old hospital wing.
In his hand, he carried a small flower he had picked on the walk back. Its petals were bright yellow, but already starting to wilt.
He opened the door to the dimly lit room. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old wood. Machines beeped in a steady rhythm, their soft glow illuminating the frail figure lying in the bed, an old man with gray hair, his face lined and pale, his chest rising and falling with visible effort. Even in unconsciousness, his brow twitched, betraying a restless sleep.
Sylar replaced the dying flowers in the vase with the fresh ones, arranging them carefully. For a moment, sadness flickered across his face as he noticed how the old blooms had withered untouched; no other visitors had come.
He turned his gaze to the monitors beside the bed and sighed. Though still a child, Sylar's curiosity and intellect had long surpassed his years. He understood enough about medicine to recognize what the numbers meant. The old man didn't have much time left.
"Sylar… what are you doing here?"
The voice was weak but familiar. Sylar turned immediately, smiling faintly. "I came to visit you, Grandpa Oliver."
The old man's name was Oliver, and he had been the orphanage's caretaker for the last fifteen years. He had taken Sylar in when he was just a baby, taught him to read, to question, to think. They shared no blood, but the bond between them was stronger than any tie of lineage.
"I told you not to come," Oliver rasped. "You should be out playing with your friends, not wasting time with an old fool waiting to die."
Sylar shook his head, still smiling. "You always say that."
Oliver's scowl softened. His voice lost some of its sharpness. "Something's troubling you."
Sylar hesitated. Then, after a long silence, he nodded.
"It's the same feeling again, isn't it?" the old man said quietly.
The boy didn't answer, only turned to the window, staring into the dark outline of the forest beyond.
From a young age, Sylar had known he wasn't like the others. It was not just his physical might. He could think with clarity beyond his years and stay calm even when everyone else panicked. But there was something else, something deeper and far more terrifying.
Sometimes, without warning, he felt a change stirring inside him. A pressure, like something vast and ancient pressing against the walls of his mind. It whispered of power, of purpose. And every time it came, he feared that when it finally broke free, he would no longer be himself.
"I like who I am," Sylar whispered. "I don't want to change."
The words trembled as they left him. Only Grandpa Oliver knew this secret, the one fear Sylar could never share with anyone else.
Oliver's gaze softened. Slowly, he reached for the boy's hand, his wrinkled fingers cold but steady. "No matter what happens," he murmured, "you just have to stay true to yourself. Protect your friends. Be a good boy. And you'll see, no plan, no destiny, no power will ever change that."
Sylar looked up at him, eyes glistening. The old man smiled faintly, then closed his eyes. Within moments, his breathing deepened into sleep.
The boy stood in silence for a while, then gently adjusted the blanket over him. A small smile touched his lips before he turned and left the room.
Out in the hallway, the quiet pressed in. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked, his mind heavy with thoughts he couldn't quite form. Without realizing it, his wandering led him outside, through the garden, and back into the forest.
It wasn't until he reached the clearing that he came to himself. He stood before the little grave he had made earlier, the mound of dirt where the rabbits lay. But something was wrong.
The grave had been dug up.
The soil was scattered, the remains of the rabbits torn apart. The same coyote from before crouched there, gnawing at the carcasses under the pale moonlight.
Sylar froze, his chest tightening with a strange, bitter ache.
So even this small kindness, this attempt to give peace, had been undone.
"Is there really nothing anyone can do," he whispered, "to change the order of things? If destiny decides everything… then not even death means freedom."
As the words left his lips, the ground began to tremble. At first, it was subtle, a faint vibration beneath his feet. But within seconds, the earth was shaking violently, trees swaying, branches cracking overhead.
Sylar stumbled, steadying himself against a trunk. His first thought was an earthquake, but then the sky began to rumble, not like thunder, but like explosions echoing from somewhere beyond the clouds.
And then he saw it.
The firmament was burning.
Waves of fire rippled across the sky, veins of crimson light tearing through the clouds like open wounds. The air shimmered, the world itself seemed to groan, and Sylar felt a sudden, unbearable pain stab through his skull. He cried out, clutching his head, and collapsed to the ground.
Darkness took him.
When he awoke, it was night. The fires were gone, but the forest was unnaturally still. His chest throbbed painfully; each heartbeat felt twisted, like invisible hands were wringing his heart.
A sense of dread filled him, heavy and suffocating. He didn't know why, but he knew something terrible was about to happen.
He pushed himself up, staggering to his feet. "I need to go back," he gasped. "I need to protect them. I need to protect—"
He ran.
The wind whipped past him, trees blurring as his legs carried him faster than he thought possible. The pain in his chest flared, but he didn't stop. After a few minutes, he saw the orphanage, still standing, its windows glowing softly in the dark. Relief flickered through him.
But just as he was about to step out from the forest, the sky split open once more.
A beam of blood-red light speared down from the sky.
The object struck with such overwhelming speed and mass that the impact generated a blinding kinetic blast. A shockwave tore through the town, flattening houses and shattering windows. Buildings crumbled like sandcastles beneath an invisible fist.
Even from the forest's edge, Sylar was hurled backward, rolling across the ground as the roaring wind and debris tore around him. His ears rang with the sounds of screams, agonized, terrified, before they were drowned beneath the crash of collapsing stone and steel.
When he finally pushed himself upright, his heart froze.
The source of the devastation was no meteor, no missile. It was a man, or something that had once been one.
The creature was a grotesque fusion of flesh and metal, a monstrous architecture of sinew and machinery. Cables of red muscle pulsed with a dark, mechanical rhythm beneath his skin, their glow shifting like molten veins. Segments of iron plating jutted from his limbs and shoulders, merging seamlessly with torn flesh.
Across his chest, bioluminescent veins pulsed, feeding some alien energy source within. His armor wasn't worn, it was grown, as if his body itself had evolved into a weapon.
He stood amid the wreckage, silent and indifferent, the destruction around him meaning nothing. Then, with a single movement, he bent his knees and leapt, vanishing into the distant skyline like a shell fired from a cannon.
Before Sylar could even draw breath, the sky cracked again.
Another figure descended.
He landed softly, almost gracefully, a tall silhouette wreathed in smoke. Like the first, he was a blend of flesh and technology, but his form was sleek, deliberate. Cables coiled from his back like serpents, glowing with a cold blue light. His black armor was etched with lines of living circuitry.
His expression was calm, almost serene, but his eyes held the intelligence of a predator.
He turned toward the shattered orphanage. From within came the faintest cries.
The man raised one metallic hand. It began to glow, electromagnetic energy gathering in his palm.