[ Prior to this, he's never really seen the inside of it. Been inside, yes, but never ... looked. Everything within Peter's apartment has been wrecked at this point, and Sylar doubts that it'll ever even look remotely the same again -- a bookcase has been overturned, shattered glass is sprinkled everywhere, and most of the dining set has been smashed to pieces, split into chunks and splinters of wood that's rained down over the floor of the livingroom. Red adorns the walls where bodies and furniture's slammed into them with enough force to crack them dangerously deep. There is so, so much red.

Blood coats Sylar's arms up to his elbows, there's blood on Sylar's face and in his hair and there's blood on Peter's hands, blood soaking the lush white carpet where Peter has, just a second ago, been hauled over and sprawled. It's impossible to know how much of it that's Sylar's and what is Peter's anymore, but the way it paints the long column of Peter's throat, trickles down that pale, new and healed skin that has been closed and ripped open and closed again until Sylar smudges the crimson trail with his fingers, he finds it beautiful in an obscene sort of way that there is no forgiveness for. He fists bloody fingers in Peter's shirt, shoves when he attempts to get to his feet, pins him to the ground with telekinetic hands and pushes him down into the floor with enough pressure for it to be crushing and painful.

His shadow falls over Peter as he takes a step closer, the soles of his shoes as red as everything else, and he places himself by Peter's feet, tall and dark and predatory and inescapable with an expression full of a whole new kind of anger. He appears eerily calm, though, right now, as he's simply staring down at him with an unreadable look on his face and with his hand raised to just ... keep Peter right where he is. Let it occur to him that he isn't getting up. ]

Do you really think you can escape it, Peter? Escape me?

[ He thinks that maybe he'd like to kill Peter, but Sylar doesn't intend to. He just intends to make everything hurt. Hurt until there is nothing but that intense, stabbing physical and psychological pain pressing in from every direction and Peter understands everything that Sylar does, until he finds a whole new way of seeing, until he can see all that Sylar sees. Crawl in under his skin and melt into him. ]

You can try to fight it all you want, but in the end, it all comes down to this.

[ It's just not the time to push his buttons.

Sylar wants to, possibly, strangle Peter - watch him suffocate, close a hand around his throat like a vice and just squeeze until his lips turn blue and his windpipe breaks under the force of his fingers. He's bracing his neck with a forearm, attempting to keep him pinned beneath him to the floor with his weight (which may or may not be effective) and yes, to throttle him, it would feel so very good.

It's a lovely temptation. Pulling away far enough to move his arm, the fingers of his free hand wrap around Peter's neck and at first, his grasp is firm, bruising, but then ... there is suddenly no pressure. He's breathing heavily, absolutely seething, but his grip has slackened enough that now, he's just ... holding. Touching. Feeling Peter's pulse under his fingers and staring down at him like this isn't all kinds of horrible. ]