Xavier almost got his head cut off.
This is not like in the movies, where some eternal man (who has survived centuries, but not the update from Victorian fashion), wielding an ancient sword worth more than your house, cuts his opponent’s head clean off, and then stands in some ridiculous pose as a city block explodes around him with low-budget electrical currents and the awesome power of 80s-era Queen shooting throughout his body. No, Xavier was a drug runner cruising through the wrong part of town. Upon spotting him sitting at a red light, a rival gang yanked open his driver- and passenger-side doors, started swinging their switchblades with as much leverage as an open car door could give them, and Xavier, strapped down by his safety belt, had little mobility to block or avoid the incoming blows. The defensive wounds on his hands kept getting deeper; the light in front of him stayed red, and stream of traffic in front of him stayed steady. Xavier was frantic, pushing his assailants off the best he could. Kept his head thrashing, too, even as the blades tugged across his neck and bashed into his skull. Finally, a gap appeared in the traffic, and Xavier left the gangbangers rolling along the asphalt.
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