The hum of the air conditioners was the first thing I noticed.
Low, constant, mechanical—like the inside of an aircraft cabin, but without the comfort of seats or the illusion of movement. The exam hall at Cottonrose Airways' Country Garden Training Center looked nothing like the glamorous recruitment posters that once covered my dormitory walls. No smiling flight attendants. No blue skies. No polished aircraft noses gleaming in the sun.
Just rows of aging desktop computers, their plastic surfaces dulled by years of use, arranged in loose clusters across the room.
Five seats per row. Maybe six.
Each one occupied.
Dozens of candidates sat hunched forward, eyes fixed on their screens, fingers resting on mice and keyboards as if any unnecessary movement might cost them their future. Some wore jeans and T-shirts. Others had clearly tried to dress more formally—button-down shirts, slacks, uncomfortable shoes. It didn't matter. In this room, no one looked important.
We all looked temporary.
I stood by the door for a moment, the plastic badge hanging from my neck feeling heavier than it should have.Cottonrose Airways — Cabin Crew & Ground Service Internship Program.
Internship.
Even back then, the word felt wrong.
"Guo Haotian?" a woman called out from behind a folding desk near the front. She didn't look up from her clipboard.
"Yes."
"Row C. Seat 14. Log in and wait."
I walked between the rows, careful not to brush against anyone's chair. A few people glanced up as I passed, their expressions a mix of curiosity and quiet hostility. No one smiled. Everyone here knew what was at stake.
This was not just an exam.
This was a filter.
Only a small fraction of the people in this room would ever touch the door of a real aircraft.
I found Seat 14. The computer in front of me was already powered on, its login screen glowing a sterile blue. I typed in the candidate number printed on my badge and waited.
While the system loaded, I let my eyes wander.
To my left sat a girl with neatly tied hair and a pale pink blouse, her lips pressed into a thin line. To my right was a tall guy in a hoodie, his knee bouncing nervously under the desk. Farther ahead, someone was already wiping sweat off his forehead with a tissue.
No one spoke.
On the wall at the front of the room hung a large digital clock.
09:57
Three minutes to go.
Somewhere outside, probably on a ramp or in a hangar, real airplanes were being fueled, cleaned, prepared for flight. Real crews were doing real briefings. Real passengers were checking in, complaining about seat assignments, asking for upgrades.
And here we were, fighting for the right to even get close to that world.
A chime rang out from the speakers.
"Attention, candidates," a recorded voice announced. "The assessment will begin at ten o'clock. Once it starts, you may not leave your seat. Any attempt to communicate with others will result in immediate disqualification."
Disqualification.
Another word that carried too much weight.
I took a slow breath and placed my hands on the desk.
09:59
In my mind, I saw again the glossy brochures that Cottonrose had distributed on campus.Join us. Fly with us. See the world.
They had never mentioned that before flying, you had to sit in a room like this—silent, anonymous, disposable—hoping not to be erased.
The clock ticked over.
10:00
My screen changed.
The first question appeared.
And just like that, my future began to be decided by a machine.