No flash, please.
For as long as he could remember, Pyro had always hated being photographed. Even if he knew that there were reels of surveillance footage from the Gravel Wars with him on them, he wasn't upset about it. What he detested was when people actually held the camera out and snapped a picture of him to show off later to their friends. Most of them never got that chance, and met their maker on the business end of his flamethrower or shotgun.
They all thought that the mumbling arsonist would not see the flash of the device behind his heavily tinted lenses, or would not hear the roll adjusting afterwards. But he always did. He had a knack for spotting the cameras way before the owner realized he'd been caught red-handed.
He remembered that his troubles began when he was just a teenager. He had always been quiet and shy, something the local bullies saw as an opening to use him as their private punching bag. However, one day they took it too far, and a punch to the base of his head had knocked him out cold. When he awoke three days later in the ICU, he was told that his nervous system had been damaged by the assault, especially his pain receptors, which were now mostly inactive. Despite these news, he'd made a speedy recovery, and been discharged two months later with the indication to watch out for dangerous impulses or thoughts.
Maybe his aversion to photographs came from the trauma of having his picture taken all those years ago at the first mental hospital he'd been tossed in after being caught starting a fire at an abandoned warehouse six months after being sent home. Or from the pictures police had taken of his arms and face after another mental patient working cooking duty had pushed him head-first into the grill to get revenge on him for beating him to the last meatloaf serving a few nights before that.
After that, he was supposed to be transferred to a proper hospital to be treated for what the doctors had deemed as "incapacitating burns and wounds". However, the personnel at the mental hospital had forgotten to tell the ambulance's crew of the man's inability to feel most types of pain and an abnormal resistance to the sedatives they used.
A few hours later, the ambulance had screeched to a halt in the middle of the New Mexico desert, leaving him alone with several dead bodies and stranded smack dab nowhere. The instinctive feeling he followed was to take his chances to find somewhere off the road to spend the night.
His journey was cut short however, when he got to a warehouse that seemed abandoned, and he decided to spend the night there. Sleep was something he would only enjoy for a few hours before he woke up on the wrong side of a shotgun wielded by a woman dressed completely in purple, guarded closely by a man in a suit and a ski mask, who was calmly smoking a cigarrete.
He would soon learn that he had attracted the attention of a wealthy corporation with his arson stunts, but their plans to recruit him into one of their fancy security crews had a wrench thrown in the gears by his imprisonment. However, his recent escape had impressed this company even more, as it proved he could hold his own in both armed and unarmed combat under stressful conditions. After this explanation, came the offer that would soon shape him into the masked enigma everyone feared nowadays. If he agreed to lend his skills to "Reliable Excavation and Demolition", he would essentially disappear from the system that had locked him up. Medical files would go missing, a fake death certificate would show up during the next routine cleanup, and most importantly, all photographic evidence that he ever existed would be burned down.
So he did the most logical thing he could, and he signed the contract then and there.