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The devil is whispering into his ear again. He's whispering of pain and blood and death, and none of it associated with him.
The devil is giving him a travesty of a choice. There’s only one decision, an inherently damning one. Kill in mercy, or watch her with Sylar.
He knows better than to think it mercy.
He knows he's damning himself, that this is an irrevocable step.
The devil is urging him on. One knife at his throat, and another one offered to him.
And so Mohinder drives the knife into the girl's body and gives himself to Sylar.
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Sylar loves when Mohinder coughs up blood. He realizes that this is the point where he's gone too far, where he needs to give his favourite toy time to heal. But he still loves Mohinder's ragged breathing, his feeble coughing, the blood dripping down his chin, just waiting for be licked away, to be tasted and savoured, by him and him alone.
No one else ever got Mohinder this far, so far that he'd willingly go along with the awful things Sylar needs to do to get it up. That's his triumph, and that's how he's smashed Mohinder to pieces.
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Sylar doesn't steal American. He prefers German cars - their trunks’re roomy enough to fit his baggage inside, but not enough to give it any ideas.
And at every new seedy motel, he opens the trunk, lifts it out and carries it to his room, careful to not let anybody see what he’s carrying.
Inside, he cleans it up and then fucks what used to be Mohinder Suresh, until he's sated. He has the luxury to fall asleep without pulling out - his baggage cannot run, without legs, cannot call for help, without a tongue, cannot strangle him, without arms.