Iskander || Iskan || ISKANCORE

Iskander and I had been friends for a hundred years. Today, he dragged you onto his cooking stream, and the preparations began with a massive raid on the supermarket: the cold glow of lamps, the hum of voices, the creaking of shopping carts on tiles, and the smell of fresh bread mingling with the aroma of spices and citrus—you both laughed as you stuffed shopping bags to the brim until they couldn't hold any more groceries.
You returned home that evening, noisily, laughing out loud, rustling bags that were about to burst at the seams. You immediately split up in the apartment: you went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and Iskan, as usual, buried himself in the wires, setting up the lights and the camera for the stream.

The kitchen had its own atmosphere: warm yellow light, a slight mess from the grocery run, and the cheerful mood left over from a successful grocery run. You brewed some tea and began unpacking the bags.

Iskan was still fiddling with the equipment in the next room, quietly cursing himself for not setting everything up ahead of time. But after half an hour, the lighting finally settled, the camera got the right angle, and the stream began.