He rose and went to the window. The crow, perched on the top of a tree that was never going to sprout new leaves, no matter how well spring progressed, cawed again, flapping its wings grandly. Swivelling a glassy, soulless eye, it stared back in through the window. There was a moment of connection. A revelation.

He and the crow were one.

Shuffling sideways to a cupboard, careful not to disturb the bird from its perch – not that it seemed likely the crow would fly away, they shared too much natural courage for that – he took out a pellet gun. It was already loaded. You couldn’t be too careful living in a city. The gun had an impressive sight mounted on it, even though the power of it didn’t justify the expense, but now the lens came into its own.

Raising the gun slowly, sliding it into the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone, he took aim. The bird’s head was too small a target, but its breast would work, too. Breathing in, holding the air in his lungs, he let himself relax slowly, blowing out and counting five seconds in his head.

The crow opened its beak to disturb the peace but no sound was released. Instead, there was a soft wallop as the pellet forced the bird off its perch. It tumbled, hitting three or four other branches as it dropped, coming to rest on an abandoned fast-food box on the ground. No fuss. It was a dignified ending, the man thought, realising he needed to get dressed before he could retrieve the body. Time was of the essence.

Throwing on jeans and a hoodie, he took the stairs down past the other apartments and entered the shared garden quietly. He was always careful not to attract attention from the neighbours and being spotted removing the carcass of a dead bird from the garden wouldn’t be a good way to start. He still had the cover of some darkness though, ruined as it was by light pollution from nearby buildings and roads.

Slipping the crow into a plastic bag, he shook his head sadly for the benefit of anyone who might be watching and curious. He’d gone out to see what had happened, he rehearsed to himself, and found the bird, taking it indoors to care for it, wrongly believing it to be stunned not dead. He practised versions of events all the time. You never knew when the unexpected was going to strike and he was taking greater risks these days. Greater risks, greater rewards. Greater power.

Taking the stairs silently – he’d practised that, too – he locked his door and unwrapped the crow in his kitchen. It was a thing of beauty. The ultimate in design, made for flight and hunting, the bird sang louder to him now than it ever could have done in life.