The studio investigated culinary horror as a genre: film and fiction in which food, cooking, and consumption become vehicles for fear and power. In this genre, food is a form of control. Eating is a test. Guests cannot leave.

The Dining Maze translates this genre into a wooden ball-maze toy reimagined as a two-level architectural fiction. The upper plane is a restaurant — velvet seating, polished black marble floors, dim lighting. Everything points to luxury. The guest is navigated by forces they cannot see: floors that tilt, surfaces that shift, rolling masses of flesh that absorb anyone in their path.

The restaurant is in fact a multicursal maze. Branching corridors, dead ends, concealed traps, and a system designed to disorient make the space a spatial argument about what fine dining actually does to the people inside it.

Falling through one of the floor's apertures drops the guest into the level below: a sterile, industrial space that works like an evidence room. Ovens, microwaves, steel surfaces marked by what came before. This is where the restaurant's product comes from. The guest who reaches this level has become part of the system.

The two levels together spatialize the central tension of the genre: the performance above requires the production below, and the building refuses to let those two things exist in separate rooms.