He likes to stand and watch as the houses fall down. Flames slithering up through windows, bursting out the door, purging the area of anything and everything. All that will be left is ash. Ash that can be blown away by the breeze, and then there will just be the charred and sullen ground; a sign that another home is gone, and another goal is crossed off in his day-planner.
He doesn't know how it started. Perhaps the day he first witnessed someone light up a cigarette, perhaps the first time he picked up a magnifying glass and burned a small insect. His fascination is just as passionate, either way. Heat -- so much of it that a person can barely breath. Asphyxiation is the only way out. Everyone dies.
You see, people survive broken limbs. They survive hurricanes, diseases, bullet wounds... They're immune to nearly everything. But if you douse the edge of their house with gasoline in the middle of the night, and then strike a match, they're gone before you could say "Baked to perfection". He likes that about fires. Slowly but surely, either the heat or lack of oxygen gets everyone.
Of course, some people survive fires, but he doesn't usually target them. He thinks that if they survived something as dangerous and sharply poisoned as a fire, someone Up There wants them to live, for whatever reason. But, if someone survives a point in his plan, then there's hell to pay.
Literally.
He's very smug when he finishes a place, his mouth stretched into a crooked smirk as he admires the black and gray scene. It's beautiful, in a menacing sort of way, and his breath is stolen from his lungs every time he witnesses the smoldering remains of a house, a building, a headquarters. He just stares, entranced by the emptyness.
And then he leaves, before anyone sees him.