He is old, with frown lines etched permanently into his face. His hands are not quite an old man's hands, but they are not a young man's hands. The gesture as he shoves his glasses into place is the same as it ever was, impatient and annoyed, and the restless tap of fingers as Vincent blocks his path has not changed.
This is more real than new guns, more real than the transformation of places. Hojo is only a handful of years older than Vincent, and Hojo is an old man. He glares at Vincent in sourceless offense, the bald Turk silently watchful behind his shoulder.
Vincent idly flexes the claw Hojo gave him, looking at the smooth, unwrinkled back of his remaining hand. With a haircut and a suit, he would look much as he did then. Hojo never will. Hojo steps back, and Vincent smiles. The Turk rushes Hojo away, and the guards close in.
Vincent doesn't quite laugh, but turns with a flourish of his cloak and strides away, boots ringing sullenly on the metal floors.