He knows that. Logically, Cassian knows that. It doesn't change the way his chest unknots a little. Sometimes, Cassian thinks he's forgotten what forgiveness feels like. Draven had certainly never given it, hadn't really believed in the concept. There were orders and they were followed. Every action, every mission, was that cut and dry to the man. The General had seen everything as a chessboard, remote star charts in an office, removed from the act of killing by experience and rank. Maybe if Cassian had lived long enough, gone through the ranks, he might have become that too. It's an unsavory thought.

What he doesn't know is what to do with the look in Jyn's eyes. Jyn, who still tries to guard her emotions and convictions, is looking at him with an undeniable sadness. He lifts his eyes to her, expression drawn. "I wish I'd listened to you," he says. If he had, then maybe...but that's not what happened. He'd finally seen a spark of hope in Jyn Erso's eyes and ignored it, ready to believe the worst of her, her father, of everyone.

"Maybe," he says. "But that was your father. I was ordered to lie. Say it was an extraction." Cassian doesn't say out loud, again, how sorry he is. He thinks Jyn must already know.

"Neither of us really got to choose our ideals, growing up," he finally says. "I shouldn't have judged you for that."