The gunshot was a living thing. It didn't just echo; it clawed its way into Kyle's ear canal and took up residence, a high-pitched, metallic shriek that vibrated through the bones of his skull. It was a bell that had been struck once, but its terrible, singular note refused to fade, drowning out the distant hum of the city and the frantic thrum of his own pulse. The world had narrowed to this concrete box, this multi-story car park that smelled of stale petrol, cold dust, and now, the sharp, acrid tang of cordite.