"Oh, you could try..." Sylar holds his hand out, palm up, and with his other makes that slicing gesture he knows so well. The gash forms from pinky to thumb and he hisses, sighs, the sensation not entirely unpleasant. His blood pools in his palm, joining the paint stains before dripping onto the grass beneath his hand. A few seconds later, the wound closes up and heals. "...But I don't think it'll stick."