The bolt catches him square in the back. As one, every muscle in his body seizes up, white hot and burning; it wrenches the air out of his lungs and jerks him forward, as if being led along on puppet strings. Sylar can't even think through the buzzing pain, let alone try to control his body.

And he's close enough to the glass door that the spasm drags him straight through it with a resounding crash.

He gasps, stumbles, hits the ground hard amid bloodied shards of glass. Struggling to clear the haze from his vision, Sylar looks around. He can't find the gun.

The box, though, didn't land too far away.

He snatches it up and staggers back to his feet, weaving down the hallway.