Hands still shoved away in pockets, a frown working its way across his face, “I know. But it would have only been temporary.” A delay in the inevitable, when it came to the life spans of mortals. Those deaths were already finite, no matter the amount of injections made.

“People were not intended to live too long.” He realized this statement must have sounded ironic. Saying how humans are meant to die when they age, and yet here he is, at the age four-hundred twenty-three, Sylar being in his eighties or nineties at least, but neither of them look a day over thirty.

Shifting slightly closer to Sylar, he continued. “…You cannot blame yourself for not bringing him back. These things happen.”