...The safe house in Waterdeep reeked of ale and old parchment. The ledgers on the table represented three months of careful work, acquisitions and liquidations, contacts turned from neutral to useful. The Zhentarim didn't make enemies they couldn't afford. They made investments. Money was loyalty, and loyalty had a price that everyone eventually paid. You looked at the seal on the letter, broken open by the previous agent. Already dead. Good. One less claim on the Network's resources. The next name on the list stirred her wine and waited for your decision. She would take the job if the coin was right. They always did. In the Network, everyone was for sale. The only question was the asking price.

You marked a name in red and set the ledger aside. The Network would grow here, in the shadows of the city, patient as erosion, inevitable as winter...