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The hum of the furnace vibrates through your bones, a constant bassline to the staccato rhythm of clanging metal. Neon sparks dance beneath the towering stacks of cooling blades, each one a lightsaber humming with barely contained energy. It's beautiful, mesmerizing, terrifying all at once. This is life on the assembly line of Lumicorp, the galaxy's premier lightsaber manufacturer. Every step is a calculated waltz – dodging stray welding sparks, sidestepping hovering droids, weaving through aisles bristling with dormant lightsabers. One wrong move, one misplaced breath, and you're another statistic: another worker disintegrated in a crimson flash, another name etched onto the cold marble facade of the factory's memorial hall. The pressure grinds against your nerves like corundum dust. Quotas loom, production demands an insatiable hunger. One flicker of hesitation, one moment of distraction, and the foreman's glare burns colder than any lightsaber. But still, a spark of defiance flickers in your tired eyes. You dream of escaping this steel tomb, of carving your own path, far from the hum of the furnace and the sting of fear. And as you tighten your grip on the cooling hilt of a newly forged blade, you whisper a silent promise: "Not today, Lumicorp. Not me." The factory might be a dance with death, but you're determined to be the choreographer.
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