St George uncut by glass

The shard snapped with a bang. George heard the zip of fabric coming apart and felt the cold glass slide along his forearm. The first thought in his head was all the morbid tips he’d heard about the “right” way to slit your wrists, going up and down instead of side to side. The huge blade whisked down across his thigh and cut off the thought.
Half of the guillotine shattered on the pavement, turning into crystal confetti that pitter-pattered across the ground. The second half hit a beat later, slowed by its passage through George’s uniform, and added to the hail of glass. People shrieked. Mark grunted in surprise. George bit back a swear and grabbed at his arm.
…
He held up his arm. The shirt sleeve was slashed open from his elbow all the way to his wrist. It was a smooth cut. Like his pants, the fabric of the shirt had parted between threads without a single hitch or pull. Even the cuff of his clove was cut. The blade of glass had gone right through the doubled-over canvas hem. He'd written his name on the cuffs ages ago, an the cut went right through the A in BAILEY.
His forearm wasn't even scratched. No blood at all. He flexed his fingers and they moved in the glove without any trouble.

Excerpt From Ex-Purgatory, pg 35, 37
Peter Clines
https://books.apple.com/us/book/ex-purgatory/id676938479