.:chapter three:.
Fang was creative.
When one first looked at him, it didn't shine through. He always wore black, and his expression always had some similarity to a blank page. Though he sketched sometimes, he certainly wasn't an inspired artist, and he didn't write stories, he wrote from real life. He wasn't an inventive speaker either. In fact, he hardly ever said anything.
But, nevertheless, he was creative.
It wasn't on the surface, of course. It was deep beneath. It was subtle; it showed through when he made meticulous plans with the flock to infiltrate the school, or when he made an especially spectacular attack in a fight.
Mostly though, it showed in his endeavours to win Max's love.
Fang knew he cared for Max. He'd known it ever since the time when they had rescued Angel, when she had not come back and he couldn't help but worry about what had happened to her. She had always remained the same way toward him and he knew that he would have to make an effort.
Because her heart was surrounded by a wall with no doors.
And he had to think outside the box to find himself a place inside.