But the sound. The sound.
It wasn’t like watching a movie. It was like looking through a window. Every blade of grass on the savannah had individual specular highlights. The fur on Simba’s cub-body was not a texture map; it was a physics simulation —each strand responding to a digital wind that Leo could almost feel. When Rafiki dripped the juice onto Simba’s forehead, Leo saw the meniscus of the liquid, the way surface tension held a perfect, wobbling dome before it shattered into pixels of crimson.
At home, he bypassed his usual HTPC. He plugged his laptop directly into the projector. No receiver. No processing. Just pure, direct light.