Sylar shoved his hands in his pockets, making a face when he found they were filled with half-melted snow. He supposed it wasn't something he could have avoided, considering how he'd had to play contortionist to pull himself back together after each and every fall. The ice had just snuck in, and dead more than alive, he simply hadn't had the body heat to melt it.

He turned out his pockets, snow falling to meet its fellows on the ground in sick, wet thumps, and tried not to think of how he was fairly sure he'd made the same sound when he'd jumped. Tried and managed, mostly, as he followed Adam into the building without so much as a word.

And, where realization of just how freezing he was had been a dull one, when they'd stood on the roof, he was so very aware of it now. Mostly, he figured, because it was warmer, down here. Not warm by in any sense of the word, since the heating had died decades ago, but warmer, away from the wind and the snow. He couldn't help but shiver.